<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>GOT16 by Anonymous_Introvert78</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28837179">GOT16</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Introvert78/pseuds/Anonymous_Introvert78'>Anonymous_Introvert78</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>GOT7 Hurt/Comfort [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>GOT7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Choi Youngjae-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Here we go, Hospitals, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, LET'S GET IT, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Protective Jackson Wang, Self-Harm, Shooting, Suicide Attempt, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:46:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,341</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28837179</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Introvert78/pseuds/Anonymous_Introvert78</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>******************</p><p>There was just blood. Everywhere. And he was dying.</p><p>******************</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>BamBam &amp; Choi Youngjae &amp; Im Jaebum &amp; Kim Yugyeom &amp; Park Jinyoung &amp; Mark Tuan &amp; Jackson Wang, Choi Youngjae &amp; Im Jaebum | JB, Choi Youngjae &amp; Jackson Wang, Choi Youngjae &amp; Kim Yugyeom, Choi Youngjae &amp; Mark Tuan, Choi Youngjae &amp; Park Jinyoung, Kunpimook Bhuwakul | BamBam &amp; Choi Youngjae</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>GOT7 Hurt/Comfort [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1446802</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>221</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Choi Youngjae</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Back again ...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I'm writing a seven-part series! One story for each member! Sorry I've been gone a while but I was busy with other engagements and ... you know ... real life problems.</p><p>
  <strong>TRIGGER WARNING!!!!</strong>
</p><p>This fic contains potentially triggering content such as graphic depictions of mental illness, post-traumatic stress disorder, panic attacks, self-harm, attempted suicide, psychiatric institutions and a mass shooting. If you are easily triggered by these topics then I strongly suggest that you reconsider whether or not you should be reading this story. </p><p>By clicking on the next chapter, you are acknowledging that I have provided the appropriate warnings and therefore I am not responsible for any distress this story may bring you. Please do not come after me in the comments by saying you were triggered because 1) that messes with my head and 2) it's not my fault. Please be safe. Thank you.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>There will be no major character death in this series.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Play Dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we go ...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>“Whoa …” Youngjae sighed as the stage finally went dark and the floodlights ignited, illuminating the sea of sweaty but smiling fans sitting in their hardbacked chairs, each wishing that the concert could last just a little bit longer. “That was amazing.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Jackson was just staring, dumbstruck, at the place where the band had disappeared, as though he couldn’t quite believe it was really over. And Youngjae laughed at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was always laughing with Jackson. Or at Jackson. Either way, Jackson was the source of his happiness in so many ways, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should get going,” the bodyguard spoke up from Youngjae’s other side, securing his baseball cap over his hair and glancing around him. “The crowd’s going to be pretty big and I want to get the two of you out of here as quickly as possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae hummed his consent, still gazing in awe at the stage far, far below. There was sweat dripping down his back from all the dancing he and Jackson had done in their seats, unable to draw too much attention to themselves for fear of being recognised, and he couldn’t stop smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jackson finally exhaled as he spiralled back to Earth with a clumsy thump. “I’m retiring. There’s no way I could ever compete with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae snorted and grabbed his hyung’s hoodie, pulling him up from his chair and pushing him towards the staircase on their left. They made their way out of the stadium, the bodyguard chivvying them along every now and again as though somebody was about to throw themselves on top of them with their fangs thirsting for blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m exhausted,” Youngjae smirked, looping his arm around Jackson’s shoulders and using the older boy as his one and only support system. “Is this how Ahgase feel after our concerts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should put glucose tablet dispensers in each of our venues,” Jackson deadpanned, procuring yet another bubbly giggle from Youngjae’s throat. “I’m serious. How do more people not pass out after these things? I feel like my life force has been sucked out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was true. Youngjae could feel it as well: the ache in his joints and the throbbing in his head and the twinge of pain in his shoulders from waving his arms in the air for hours on end. He felt like he’d run a marathon and yet he wouldn’t have exchanged this sensation for the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, he hadn’t been an idol, forced to keep up appearances in front of a world that seemed to always be watching, just waiting to leap out and take a bite of flesh so they could display his flaws to the media. He’d just been a fan dancing to some music with his best friend by his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, he’d been free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he wasn’t, and everything he knew was ripped to shreds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still laughing, arm wrapped around Jackson’s shoulders, when it all started and, at first, he had no idea what it was. He thought that maybe somebody had dropped something. A very loud something. Or that a champagne cork had just popped off.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>One.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it came again, louder this time. Closer. A single, resonating bang that seemed to echo off every wall, the acoustics in this spherical building boosting its decibel until it was almost unbearable to the human ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Two.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It took one more for people to start screaming. And once they started, they didn’t stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Three.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae and Jackson were just standing stock still in the venue lobby, heads whipping from side to side in their desperate attempt to identify the source of the chaos as, little by little, the crowd around them started to descend into panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a surge for the exit, men and women ramming into them from behind and Youngjae would have fallen if it hadn’t been for his bodyguard’s strong grip on his T-Shirt and Jackson’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Four.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And now he knew what it was: a gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a gun in this building, with him and Jackson and all these people completely at its mercy. They could run, sure, and they could maybe escape but if a bullet decided to write their name on its metallic shaft then there would be no stopping it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Five.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move!” the bodyguard yelled, fisting his hands in the material of his charges’ shirts and shoving them towards the great big glass doors that led to the outside world. “Fucking move, the both of you, and keep your head down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s feet travelled on impulse, his sneakers catching on the polished floors and almost sending him flying. He stooped, bringing his hands up over his head as though his fleshy palms would stand a chance of shielding his skull from a bullet.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Six.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel Jackson beside him, the bodyguard behind him, and everything else was just a blur. People were still pushing. Still screaming. Still trampling each other in their desperation to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A woman was on the ground, trying frantically to crawl out of the sea of stampeding legs, and Youngjae wanted to help her but he couldn’t. He was too afraid. His mind only knew how to do one thing: run.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Seven. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Somebody went down, right in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man, at least 6 feet tall with rippling muscles straining against his shirt and jeans let out a scream of agony, his back arching as his huge frame pitched forwards and hit the ground with an awful, sickening thump.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bodyguard was still holding onto Youngjae, tugging him around the body before he could trip, and he couldn’t stop himself from looking back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw the blood, spreading over the floor. He saw that man’s dead, lifeless eyes staring off into the abyss, never to gaze upon his mother or his wife or his children again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eight.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t understand why they hadn’t reached the doors yet. It felt like they’d been running, shuffling, staggering for miles and he couldn’t even see his one and only exit over the heads swimming in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wished he could reach out for Jackson, grab his hand, feel his warmth and his comfort and remind himself that his big brother was by his side and he wasn’t going to die in here alone but he was too scared of tripping and bringing his hyung down with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nine.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Somebody else fell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A girl. She didn’t look any older than twenty, and a boy – maybe her date – threw himself on the ground beside her, screaming her name and shaking her motionless body as tears streamed down his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae looked away.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ten.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Their bodyguard was shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man didn’t even have time to feel the pain. At least, Youngjae hoped he didn’t. All he knew was that one minute, he was shoving his way towards the doors and the next, the person who was supposed to be protecting him jerked forwards and brought all three of them down to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae flipped onto his back, already feeling the blood seeping through his jeans, and a strangled cry of horror escaped his lips when he got a look at the wide, gaping mouth and the glazed, glassy eyes and the perfectly circular bullet hole that was spurting scarlet fluid like a faucet.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eleven.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson screamed something but Youngjae didn’t have time to process what it was before his hyung was on top of him. He pushed his little brother face first into the ground, keeping him pinned on his stomach as he climbed on top of him, shielding his body with his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t move!” Youngjae heard over the sound of death and destruction all around him. “Don’t move! Play dead!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae didn’t know whether the wetness on his face was blood or tears but he was positive that he was crying. It was impossible not to. He could already smell his own death in the form of the copper permeating his clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was his bodyguard’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Twelve.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He stayed as still as he possibly could, obeying Jackson’s order and pretending he was deceased. That a bullet had burrowed into his flesh and stopped his heart right where he stood. That he was no longer a part of the planet and that he would never get a chance to tell his members how much he loved them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pretended. He pretended. He pretended and he prayed that pretending was all he would have to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thirteen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought of Jaebeom. He hadn’t seen him since they’d gone on hiatus a week ago. What was the last thing they’d said to each other? Something stupid about the weather. All those years of friendship and a complaint regarding the heaviness of the rain was all Jaebeom would remember of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought of Jinyoung. His best friend. His favourite hyung. He wasn’t ashamed to admit it anymore. Not now that he knew he was going to die. That he was never going to see Jinyoung ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fourteen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought of Bambam and Yugyeom. The way they made him laugh, the way they made him feel like he was safe whenever they were in his company, the way he loved them with every fibre of his being and every beat of his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought of Mark. Quiet, shy, inordinately talented but too introverted to show it Mark. Mark who needed someone to tell him that he didn’t have to keep his mouth shut because he was the visual and looking pretty was all he was good for. Mark who was never going to hear those words because Youngjae wouldn’t be around to give them.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fifteen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The screams felt thinner now. Not quieter. Just … thinner. As though the body of voices they consisted of was gradually shrinking. As though the people who were making them were dying. One by one. As bullets pierced their skin and shattered their bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Youngjae cried.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sixteen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was worse than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae waited, eyes screwed shut, fingers clamped over his mouth in the hopes that he would be able to stifle his own sobs, Jackson’s weight still on top of him, and he listened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waited for footsteps to approach, for a cocky little smirk as the gunman realised two of the corpses on the ground weren’t actually corpses at all. He waited for the barrel to be pressed against his skull, to hear the click of a trigger and then feel the oblivion engulf him but it never came.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seconds became minutes. The minutes stretched on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there was silence. There was nothing.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Gun And Bullet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>Youngjae opened his eyes, blinking through the tears and the blood that crusted in his skin. Jackson’s arm was in front of his face, obstructing most of his view but he could still see the scarlet puddles staining the tiles.</span></p><p>
  <span>His hair was matted with the stuff. His clothes were drenched. It clung to his body for dear life and he didn’t even want to think about who it belonged to. Whether it was the bodyguard – the man who had died trying to protect them – or some other unfortunate soul he didn’t even know the name of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hyung?” he whispered, so timidly that he couldn’t even hear himself. “Jackson-hyung?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed to stand up. His legs were cramping and his ribs were being crushed by his big brother’s body and he needed to stand up right now or he wasn’t sure he ever would again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson-hyung, get off …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no reply. Just breathing. Slow, deep, slightly wheezy breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae grunted with the effort of rolling over and turfing Jackson off his back, wincing at the sound of his hyung’s body thudding against the floor. Maybe he’d passed out from the shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He braced his hands against the ground and pushed up, his fingers slipping and sliding in the blood he was practically swimming in. There was so much of it. So much. Everywhere. In every direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were bodies. Many of them. At least a dozen if not more. A couple were still moving, their heads lolling on their shoulders and their fingers twitching at their sides. One woman was crying, clutching her leg and whimpering into the silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bodyguard was right there. Right in front of him. Lips parted, eyes wide, coated in his own blood. And Youngjae was coated, too. So much blood. Everywhere. In every direction. On all sides. E.V.E.R.Y.W.H.E.R.E.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sirens snapped through his auditory sensations, almost deafening him, and he caught sight of the flashing blue lights through the glass doors in front of him. Just a few feet away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d been so close to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson …” he whispered, turning to the place his hyung had fallen. “Jackson-hyung, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was lying on his stomach, facing the opposite direction, expression concealed from view. He was bloodied, too. His hoodie and his jeans and his trainers and his socks and his hair all tainted with the same crimson poison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson-hyung, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crawled closer, his hands trembling as he reached out to curl his fingers into Jackson’s clothes. The effort of turning him onto his back was almost too much for him to handle but, with a few grunts and a broken sob, he managed to reposition Jackson so that his face was finally in view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson-hyung?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he saw the way his hyung’s skin was paper white.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he saw the way his chest was moving too slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he saw the bullet hole in his best friend’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No … No, no, no, no, no … Jackson!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t breathe. Jackson had been shot and Youngjae was the one who couldn’t breathe. But Jackson had been shot. Shot. With a gun. And a bullet. Shot. In his body. Where he bled. Shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Planting his hands over the wound, he pushed down and watched with a twisting stomach as crimson squirted through his fingers, lapping over his hands and only adding to the ever-growing lake that surrounded them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, God … Oh, God … Jackson-hyung … Jackson … Hyung … Oh, God …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still keeping pressure as best he could with arms that were trembling more violently than a leaf in the wind, he tried to look around for a phone or a medic or just a big red button that he could press and erase the last twenty minutes of his existence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nothing. Just the victims and a couple of family members or friends who were crouching at their sides, holding their hands and telling them to stay awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae couldn’t do that. Because Jackson hadn’t been awake to start off with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson …” he sobbed, needing to reach up and wipe the tears from his eyes but he couldn’t let go of his hyung’s shoulder. He didn’t want to know what would happen if he did. “Jackson … Jackson, help’s coming … Hang on … Hang on, please …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was the terror playing tricks on his imagination but he could have sworn that Jackson’s breaths were slowing with each passing second, laboured and wheezing and ragged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on … Hold on … Hold on … Hold on …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know when he’d started but now he was rocking back and forth, still perched on his knees, still digging his palms into Jackson’s wound and suffocating in the scent of blood and sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on … Hold on … Hold on … Hold on …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixteen shots. Sixteen bullets cutting through air faster than the speed of sound – maybe – and piercing sixteen bodies. And one of those had been Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on … Hold on … Hold on … Hold on …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixteen. For the rest of his life, he would never forget that number. Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen. The unluckiest digit in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on … Hold on … Hold on … Hold on …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors were wrenched open and Youngjae moved instinctively, throwing himself on top of Jackson in the desperate hope that he could protect him from any more assailants and the metal monsters they fired into innocent people’s bodies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could sense someone kneeling beside him and he wanted to scream at them to get away from his hyung. Get as far away as possible. Because he was hurt enough as it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then he heard the voice, warm and calm and soothing, and he felt the hand resting against his shoulder and it clicked in his mind that if this person was going to shoot him, they probably weren’t going to comfort him first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, sweetheart, my name’s Heejin. I’m a paramedic. Can you sit up so I can take a look at your friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae was shaking. Youngjae was soaked in his best friend’s blood. Youngjae was terrified and traumatised beyond imagination and yet he felt like this woman was speaking to his soul, telling him that it was okay for him to step back because she was never going to harm Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, honey,” she cooed when he straightened slightly, still refusing to remove his hands from the bullet hole for fear that Jackson would just combust as soon as he did. “What’s your friend’s name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what’s your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Youngjae, sweetie, I’m going to need you to let go of Jackson. Can you do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae shook his head – frantic, desperate, manic – and she raised her latex-gloved-hands in a reassuring gesture. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew that he was preventing this professional medic from helping Jackson but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. Not even for a single second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise you, Youngjae, I am not going to hurt him. I’m going to help him, okay? But before I do that, I need you to take your hands away so that I can stop him from bleeding. Do you understand, Youngjae?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took all of Youngjae’s willpower to retract his hands, holding them away from his body as though his clothes weren’t already dripping with blood. He shuffled backwards on his knees, the fluid sloshing about beneath him, and watched with wide, teary eyes as Heejin took a wad of gauze and clamped it to Jackson’s wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gyesang!” she yelled over her shoulder, so loudly that Youngjae flinched. “I’ve got a major bleed over here! Looks like the bullet severed his brachial artery! I’m going to need some help!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man came stumbling over, having to swerve around corpses and avoid particularly bloody puddles before he skidded to his knees beside them. He didn’t even glance at Youngjae before he was tightening some kind of band around Jackson’s upper arm, effectively cutting off the circulation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, this is bad …” he was muttering under his breath as Heejin clapped an oxygen mask over the patient’s nose and mouth. “We’ve got priority over here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae was dreaming. That was the only logical solution. He was dreaming and none of this was real. Because it couldn’t be. There was absolutely no way that he was kneeling here next to Jackson’s dying body, lathered in blood and surrounded by corpses after getting caught up in a fucking shooting of all things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t happen to people like him. People like him were supposed to be immune to attacks like this. People like him … were supposed to be safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was the squeak of poorly-oiled wheels and then there was a gurney pulling up beside them, two more green-clad people stooping down at their side to fasten a secure grip on Jackson’s body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a second, Youngjae thought they were taking him away. To hurt him more, to kill him, to burn his body. But then he saw the way they lifted him – lightning fast and yet gentle all at the same time – and laid him on the padded sheets, his blood seeping through the cotton in a matter of moments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae scrambled to his feet, desperate not to let Jackson out of his sight – too afraid to even blink – and followed the morbid procession out of those big glass doors and into the parking lot where he felt like he’d just stepped onto a battleground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were people everywhere. Crying, screaming, holding onto each other for dear life. Medics seemed to be running in every direction, fetching blankets and bandages and oxygen masks to treat the injured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nearest woman looked like she was missing an eye, the huge bloody socket gaping a wide open chasm in her face, and Youngjae turned away before he could throw up all over his shoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His clothes were stiff, the blood already drying out the fabric, and the smears on his skin were starting to crust. He felt like he was a piece of clay, cracking and disintegrating in the sunlight, but he moved as fast as he possibly could in order to keep up with Jackson’s stretcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they were in the back of the ambulance and Youngjae was pushed into the corner, out of the way, as the sirens started screeching and the medics were bending over the body on the bed, trying everything they could to keep him alive for as long as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Youngjae was covered in blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson’s blood. The bodyguard’s blood. Random people he’d never met’s blood. Maybe a little of his own blood. Just blood. There wasn’t a square inch of his body that wasn’t caked in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was just blood. Everywhere. And Jackson was dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was dying because he’d tried to save Youngjae.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it wasn’t fair.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Blood. Blood. BANG!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>Sound.</span></p><p>
  <span>Beeping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shouting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Children.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adults.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Women.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nurses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doctors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paramedics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was standing in the ER, a place where people were supposed to be safe and protected, surrounded by people who wanted and knew how to care for them. But as Youngjae remained where he was, frozen to the spot, unable to move, he could see no difference between this place and the site of the shooting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patients were everywhere, bleeding from all sorts of wounds, deep and shallow, long and short. They spilled out into the parking lot. They were lying on the floor because there were no chairs left available. Gurneys lined the walls, all the rooms stocked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Medical personnel were running in every direction, treating both the gunshots and the crush injuries that had been caused in the rush to escape. Youngjae was looking at people who were going to die because there weren’t enough doctors to save them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know where they’d taken Jackson. He himself had just been abandoned in the middle of all the chaos, drenched from his matted hair to his sodden socks with blood. It dripped from his hands and trickled over his skin and clung to his face and there was some of it in his eyes and he could even taste the copper on his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he stood, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, eyes almost comically wide, breaths sharp and short and nowhere near enough to supply him with the oxygen he needed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody stopped to help him. They were all far too busy. Nobody even gave him a second glance. It wasn’t like he was the only person who looked like they’d been swimming in scarlet paint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was shivering and he didn’t know how to stop. He was hyperventilating and he didn’t know how to stop. He was dripping in blood and he didn’t know how to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Out of the way!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somebody collided with his shoulder, an arm swatting him aside like a fly to make room for a gurney to be rushed past, bearing another casualty of the same event that might have killed Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae slid down the wall he was pushed against, leaving a crimson smear in his wake, and came to rest on the floor with a squelching thump. Squelching. From the blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are … Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somebody was kneeling in front of him. He could see the outline of their body, the pale blue of their scrubs, the red-tinted trainers, but he couldn’t raise his head. It was too heavy. Weighed down by all the blood. Jackson’s blood. The bodyguard’s blood. Other people’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir? Can you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could. He just couldn’t respond. He didn’t know how. He’d lost the power of speech. Her hands were on his arms, fingers ghosting over his wrist and digging in to feel his pulse. It was probably fast. Maybe too fast. He didn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you injured?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, thin and foamy and not-at-all like the big fluffy ones he had at home. It brought no comfort. It brought no warmth. It was completely and utterly useless but he couldn’t tell her that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somebody let out an ear-piercing scream from across the sea of death and destruction and Youngjae felt his entire world explode, gunshots ricocheting inside his head, people falling in every direction, people dying, shot, blood, gore, gunshots, sixteen of them, sixteen gunshots, bang, bang, bang, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bang, BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was something wet on his face. Maybe it was blood. Maybe they were tears. He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to reach up and find out. He didn’t know if he could reach up and find out. His arms were too heavy. His hands were too bloody.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman was gone, had sprinted off to help whoever was screaming, had left him here on the ground with his pathetic little blanket and his blood-sodden clothes and his eyes that wouldn’t move from one fixed spot in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beeping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Noises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little girl was wailing for her mother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man was howling in pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae was suffocating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gunshots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew that voice. He knew that voice very well. He loved that voice. He couldn’t remember who that voice belonged to. It was just a voice. A bodiless voice. Voice. Blood. Voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, talk to me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can’t. Blood. Gunshots. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Can’t talk. Want to talk. Can’t talk. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Don’t know how. Know you. Knew you. Want to know you. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, can you hear me? Where’s Jackson?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! BANG! BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Jackson. Gunshots. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jackson. Hyung. Jackson-hyung. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jackson. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Death. Dying. Breathing? No. Not breathing. Dead. Gone. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come with me, baby. Come on … Hyung’s got you. Stand up for me now. Come on, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hands. Pulling him up. Going up. Rising. Dying. Rising. Death. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jackson. Gunshots. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Moving. Feet won’t. Move. Feet won’t. Don’t know how to. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! BANG! BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Going. Am I. Where. Where am going I. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to get you cleaned up, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blanket gone. Gone. Blanket. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Blood. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jackson. Gunshots. Death. Gore. Bodyguard. Jackson. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Blanket. Water? Water. Hot. Very hot. Too hot. Scream. Can’t scream. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Gunshots. Jackson. Colder. Better. Good. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it, baby. Close your eyes now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can’t. Can? Can’t. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jackson. Cold. Warm. Hot? No. Cold. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Blood? No blood? No blood. Water. Cold. Hot. Jackson. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shower? Shower. Home? Not home. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Blood. Blood. Wet. Water. Water. Wet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, no, Youngjae, stay with me now …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falling. Down. Down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Down. Down. Down. Falling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Blood. Jackson. Bodyguard. Falling. Down. Splash. </span>
  <em>
    <span>BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Down. Splash. Dark. Dark. Dark. Dark. Dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hot?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Worst Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I forgot to update last night. Sorry, guys! My bad!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>           The worst things happen on the most normal of days. Bambam knew that now.</p><p>He’d just been sitting on the couch, Yugyeom draped over his lap, shopping for new skinny jeans on his phone. The drama they’d been watching – Jinyoung’s drama – had come to an end a few seconds ago and now they were tired of teasing their hyung for the acting they would never admit was actually very good.</p><p>It was the most normal of days.</p><p>Jinyoung had retired to his bedroom, having had enough of the jokes and the humorous quips. Mark was in the kitchen, trying to recreate the incredibly delicious plate of ramen he’d randomly cooked up the other night. And Jaebeom was in the arm chair, typing out an email to the management team.</p><p>It was the most normal of days.</p><p>And then the news came on and the most normal of days turned into the worst moment of each and every one of their lives.</p><p>A reporter was standing outside of the hospital, frequently glancing behind her at the patients who were being valeted through the doors at a terrifyingly fast pace. People were limping, crying, clutching bloodied limbs to their chests. It looked like the aftermath of a war.</p><p>Bambam’s eyes were naturally drawn upwards at the sheer magnitude of the noise and he found himself glued to that newsreader and the text that was scrolling through the box beneath her, adding further detail to the tragedy.</p><p>“Jesus …” he muttered under his breath, prompting Yugyeom to glance over as well.</p><p>“My God … Where is that?” he gasped as he pushed himself out of Bambam’s lap so they could sit side by side, gaping at the TV in front of them.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> “… the number of casualties has already reached the double digits and there are presumed to be many more as hospitals are being overrun with the injured. Police have reported that the gunman open-fired at the end of the concert, killing nine people, before he turned the gun on himself and took his own life. He is yet to be identified and his motives are currently unknown. This tragedy will surely go down in history as the biggest mass shooting South Korea has ever …"</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Jaebeom-hyung …” Bambam whispered, literally feeling the colour draining from his body as his hand tightened on Yugyeom’s thigh. “Jaebeom-hyung …”</p><p>“What?” Jaebeom hummed, glancing at them over the top of his computer. “What is it?”</p><p>Bambam couldn’t speak. His eyes were fixated on the screen so he heard rather than saw Mark emerging from the kitchen to stand behind the couch. And all he could bring himself to do was raise a trembling hand and point at the TV set.</p><p>Jaebeom’s brow creased as he took in the new information and tried to process what it meant and why it was causing Bambam and Yugyeom to look as if their eyeballs were about to burst out of their skulls.</p><p>“Wha …?”</p><p>“Oh my God,” Mark whispered and there was the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor before the eldest was vaulting over the back of the couch and seizing the remote, leaning forwards to turn the volume up. “Oh my God … Oh my God …”</p><p>“What is it?” Jaebeom repeated, shoving his laptop aside. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Bambam saw the moment it hit him. The moment his eyebrows shot up into his hairline and his fingernails punctured the arms of the chair and his chest stopped moving as his heart stopped beating and he stopped breathing and he died, right there on the spot.</p><p>“Is that …?” came Jinyoung’s voice from the corner of the room. “Is that … Jackson and … Youngjae, they … They were at that con …”</p><p>“Get your coats,” Jaebeom hissed, practically throwing himself out of his chair and scooping the car keys off the coffee table. “Get your coats now! Or I’m leaving you behind!”</p><p>There was a frantic scramble to gather shoes and masks and Bambam didn’t even bother putting on a pair of socks or doing up his laces before he was following the hyungs and Yugyeom out the front door and into the car that was waiting for them at the foot of the driveway.</p><p>Jaebeom drove fast. Too fast. Illegally fast. But nobody stopped him. Nobody said anything. They were all too frightened. Too afraid of what they were going to find when they arrived at that hospital.</p><p>They’d said there were already over ten people dead. And more to come. More to die. What if Youngjae and Jackson were among those ten? Or those more? What if they’d felt bullets piercing their skin just seconds before the lights went out and they lost their lives?</p><p>Or what if it had taken time? What if they’d just lain there on the ground, waiting in agony for death to claim them? And even if they hadn’t been shot, would they have been crushed in the panic to escape? Had they been together? Had they held on to each other or had they been separated?</p><p>Bambam only knew one thing: no matter what condition they were in or what had happened to them, they must have been beyond terrified.</p><p>Jaebeom hadn’t even stopped the car before Mark was tumbling out and everybody else wasn’t far behind. It was crowded and horrible and there was blood splattered over the pavement but Bambam didn’t allow himself to look at it.</p><p>Find Youngjae and Jackson. That was his only goal.</p><p>Security guards stood at the door, trying to keep the press away from the scenes of devastation and destruction beyond in the ER, but it was far too easy to slip past them such was the extent of the number of people trying to gain entry.</p><p>It was the most awful thing any of them had ever seen.</p><p>Bambam couldn’t even find the words to describe the feeling of fear and horror and gut-wrenching pain at the sight of all those people tending to their own wounds while they waited for a doctor to be free enough to care for them.</p><p>He would have closed his eyes and run straight back out those doors if it weren’t for that single word Jaebeom yelled above the sounds of agony and anguish.</p><p>“Youngjae!”</p><p>His head snapped to the side, honing in on the direction of the call, and the moment he saw Youngjae, it felt like everything else disappeared as he staggered forwards and dropped to the ground beside his best friend.</p><p>The boy was drenched in blood. It stained his clothes, it dripped from his fingertips, it smeared his face and matted his hair and soaked his shoes and socks, barely leaving any room for them to see the paper pale skin beneath.</p><p>Somebody had draped a blanket around his shoulders but he was shivering as though hypothermic, his hands clenched into fists on top of the knees he had drawn right up to his chest.</p><p>It broke Bambam’s heart.</p><p>“Youngjae, talk to me!” Jaebeom called out, reaching forwards like he was about to take hold of the catatonic boy on the floor before he seemed to realise that such a move would do more harm than good. “Youngjae, can you hear me?”</p><p>He didn’t look like he could. He didn’t look like he could do anything but sit there and quiver like a leaf in the wind.</p><p>“Where’s Jackson?”</p><p>That was what finally got the reaction. Youngjae sucked in a tremulous breath of traumatised terror, grabbing his legs and hugging them closer to his body as his eyes blew wider than ever and his heart rate shot up into space.</p><p>“Jinyoung,” Jaebeom choked out, snagging hold of Jinyoung’s wrist, and that was the first time Bambam realised there were tears in his eyes. “You and Bam take Youngjae. Get him cleaned up, make sure he’s not hurt and find him a nurse if you can.”</p><p>Jinyoung seemed to move on autopilot, kneeling down beside his little brother and ever so gently taking a hold of his elbow.</p><p>“Come with me, baby,” he coaxed, sending Bambam a withering glare that finally shocked the younger boy into movement as he stooped down on Youngjae’s other side. “Come on … Hyung’s got you. Stand up for me now.”</p><p>The others were already gone, plunging into the thicket of the injured in their desperate search for Jackson. Bambam focused on the here and the now. On Youngjae and the strength he and Jinyoung needed to lever the trembling boy into a standing position.</p><p>“Come on, baby,” Jinyoung kept going, taking a tentative step forwards and managing to gage Youngjae into moving his feet. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”</p><p>The three of them tottered towards the showers – or at least towards the room with a picture of a shower on the door – and as soon as they were out of that hell hole, Bambam felt his pulse begin to slow.</p><p>“We’re going to get you cleaned up, okay?” he told Youngjae as he carefully stepped away to turn on one of the faucets.</p><p>They didn’t bother removing his clothes. That would probably cause even more distress. So instead, they just dropped the blanket, took one of Youngjae’s hands each and led him beneath the stream, not even caring when their own bodies were drenched through and through.</p><p>The water ran scarlet, staining the porcelain floor in seconds as the tinted poison gurgled down the drain only to be replaced by more and more and more. Bambam scrubbed gently at Youngjae’s face with his fingers, trying to ease the blood from his skin and Jinyoung was doing the same for his hands.</p><p>“There’s so much …” he whispered to himself and Bambam didn’t respond.</p><p>Neither of them wanted to even think about whose blood this was, seeing as they couldn’t find any kind of injury on Youngjae’s body. It might have been Jackson’s. It might not. But this boy had seen something terrible. Something beyond terrible.</p><p>Jinyoung retrieved a tiny bottle of shampoo from the floor and squirted a dollop into the palm of his hand.</p><p>“That’s it, baby,” he murmured as Bambam took Youngjae’s chin and very gently tilted his head back. “Close your eyes now.”</p><p>Youngjae didn’t. It didn’t look like he could even hear them and Bambam wanted to scream at him, to shake him so hard that it ripped him back to reality so he could have his best friend back. But that wasn’t really an option.</p><p>He brought his hand up and placed it on top of Youngjae’s forehead, effectively creating a visor to shield his eyes from the soap suds as Jinyoung began lathering the stuff into the hair that was tangled into bloodied dreadlocks.</p><p>“We might have to cut it out,” he heard his hyung whisper as his fingers got stuck for the umpteenth time. “It’s so matted.”</p><p>Maybe it was what Jinyoung had said. Maybe it was the residual memories from the trauma he’d just experienced, but, without warning, Youngjae flipped out.</p><p>His breathing became harsh and wheezing, sounding like metal grating on metal as he dragged air through the lungs that appeared to be closing up. His hands shot out and started trying to push them away and his eyes were the size of tennis balls, spilling tears at an ungodly rate.  </p><p>“No, no, no …” Bambam cried, trying to secure his grip on Youngjae before the boy could slip and hit his head but he was only shoved away again. “Youngjae, stay with me now!”</p><p>But Youngjae was gone. Maybe he’d never really been here in the first place, but now he was spiralling down that big black hole of his own mind and, as though to illustrate that very point, his knees suddenly gave out.  </p><p>Both Jinyoung and Bambam caught him under his arms but he was too heavy to hold and they were forced to lower him to the floor. He was still hyperventilating, still trying to fight them, but the strength was slowly leaving his body and any minute now, he was going to pass out.</p><p>Bambam turned off the shower as Jinyoung took Youngjae’s face in his hands and tried to soothe him through the panic. It wasn’t working. Nothing was working.</p><p>“Bam, we need to get him a doctor!”</p><p>But even as Bambam burst out of the room, he knew that there wasn’t going to be a doctor to find.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Sixteen To Be Clean</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <em><span>BANG!</span></em></p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s eyes flew open, hands immediately leaping to whatever it was that was pinning him down and trying to throw it off him. It was soft. But heavy. Soft and heavy. Like Jackson’s body on top of him as bullets whizzed over his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was in his own world of panic, fighting into a sitting position and kicking out with his legs in the desperate hope that the blankets would just disappear so he could stop feeling like he was tied down to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, breathe! It’s okay! You’re safe! You’re home! Just breathe!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark was in front of him, gripping his wrists to try to stop him from lashing out, but Youngjae could only focus on the fear that was oozing from his every pore and poisoning each cell in his body with an overwhelming amount of adrenaline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re home, Youngjae! You’re home and you’re with me and everything is okay!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was it really? Was Mark telling the truth? Mark had never been one to lie before, so why would he be starting now? It must be the truth. He must be home and he must be safe and everything must be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be until he had Jackson by his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it,” Mark soothed, edging closer and pulling Youngjae into his chest, one hand rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades and the other stroking his hair in a calming motion. “Just take deep breaths. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae nodded into his hyung’s sweater, cracking his teary eyes open just to convince himself that he was, indeed, in his own room with his own belongings and his own bed and everything that belonged to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a long, long time before he felt ready to pull away from the embrace and Mark gave him every last second he needed, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp when Youngjae was finally no longer clinging to him like a koala.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you feel?” he whispered, taking both of Youngjae’s hands in his own and squeezing them gently. “Does anything hurt? Do you want a drink or something to eat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae ran his tongue over cracked lips, trying to bring them moisture that he didn’t have. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he could hear were gunshots. All he could see was the stark scarlet of blood standing out against porcelain skin. And all he could feel was Jackson’s life ebbing away beneath his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson …” he whimpered, wanting to reach up to wipe away his tears but at the same time, too terrified to let go of Mark’s hands even for a moment. “Jackson-hyung …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark nodded his understanding of the broken sentences and moved even closer, tightening his grip on those trembling fingers as if they were going to disappear without constant contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell you what happened, Youngjae,” he stated slowly, clearly trying to transfer his calmness into his little brother’s trembling body. “But you have to keep taking deep breaths and try to stay as calm as possible, okay?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae nodded, too desperate for answers – for news on Jackson – to bother thinking about just how difficult Mark’s request would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did Mark look like he was trying not to cry? What had happened? Why wouldn’t the shots just stop reverberating around his skull? Why couldn’t he have a moment’s peace and quiet? Why couldn’t he get rid of the sight of blood from the insides of his eyelids?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson’s alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s heart started beating again, but it was slow and shy and still timid as a deer, waiting for the shoe to drop and Mark to admit the facts he was holding back while he tried to ascertain whether his friend’s mental state was stable enough to hear them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he got shot, Youngjae. And it was bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He already knew that. He could still feel the blood. Crusting in his fingernails, dripping from his fringe, smeared over his face every time he wiped a hand across his cheek. He glanced down at himself, instinctively, knowing that the crimson stains were gone from his body but still refusing to believe he would ever forget that they had been there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He lost a lot of blood,” Mark continued, staring deep into Youngjae’s watering eyes for any sign of an impending breakdown. “But the surgeons stabilised him and he’s at the hospital with Jaebeom right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alive. Stabilised. Those were all good things, Youngjae told himself. Jackson was alive. Jackson had been stabilised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was no longer in danger of dying as he lay sprawled on the ground with his shoulder spurting blood like a faucet and Youngjae’s hands digging into the wound in an attempt to stop the blood and the blood spreading across the floor and the blood seeping into his clothes and the blood …</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae,” Mark called out softly, releasing one of Youngjae’s hands so he could reach up and cup the younger boy’s face. “Breathe. Slowly. Come on. That it’s now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Youngjae gasped, trying his damn hardest to inhale as deeply as he could as the pain in his chest reached breaking point and he felt like he was going to die. Like Jackson. “I’m sorry … I’m so … I’m sorry …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay. There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay. Jackson’s okay. I’m right here with you. You’re home and you’re safe and nobody is going to hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Youngjae repeated, eyes squeezed shut and both hands fisted in Mark’s sweater in the hope that it would ground him. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But was he really? Was that enough?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still wasn’t enough. He needed more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why wasn’t it enough? Would it never be enough?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Oh. That was good. That felt better. He was no longer convinced that he was drowning on dry land even though his throat was parched and his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. He no longer felt like he was dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How many times had he said it? How many times before it had felt okay to stop? One … two … three … sixteen. It had taken sixteen ‘okays’ for that word to finally come true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like it had taken sixteen ‘hold ons’ for the paramedics to finally arrive and start helping Jackson. Just like it had taken sixteen shots before that murderer had finally lain dead and harmless among the corpses of his victims.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixteen. Sixteen was good. Safety came, but only after sixteen. Sixteen was his anchor. Sixteen was going to save his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you back with me?” he heard Mark murmuring and fingers gently rested against his chin, lifting his head so he could look his hyung in the eye. “Youngjae?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Youngjae croaked, nodding minutely. “Yeah. I … I … What … Why am I …?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to know how he’d gotten here. The last thing he could remember was the shower and the hands that were pressing fingerprint-shaped bruises into his skin and the water that was running red with blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mark seemed to understand what he was trying to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There weren’t enough beds at the hospital,” he explained gently. “And you weren’t hurt anywhere, but you passed out. An ambulance brought us home so you could rest up here and we could look after you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae was only half listening. All the room had to illuminate it was the bedside lamp and therefore shadows still ate away at almost everything in sight. Hands could reach from those shadows, a gunman could be hiding in the darkness, waiting to claim the victim that he missed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still felt it, even if it had been washed away. He felt it against his skin, weighing down his clothes, sticking to his scalp and his face and building up beneath his fingernails. It was gloopy, syrupy, thick and coppery-smelling and the sight of it dripping from his body never left his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I …” he choked, finally succeeding in kicking the blankets to the foot of the bed. “I need … I need a shower and … and then I need Ja … Jackson-hyung …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Mark soothed, reaching up to comb his little brother’s hair out of his wide, unblinking eyes. “That’s okay, Youngjae. Take all the time you need but don’t lock the door, okay? And then I’ll take you to see Jackson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d barely finished talking before Youngjae was tumbling out of bed, not even bothering to find a change of clothes before he stumbled into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He didn’t lock it, obeying Mark’s request, and instead tore his shirt and jeans from his body as though they were burning him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tossed them to the floor, staring down at the fibres and gouging his knuckles into his eyes to try and rid them of the blood he kept envisioning all around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no more blood. It was gone, washed away down some drain, never to be seen again. But it was a part of Jackson and it had been on him, in him, around him. He’d smelt it and tasted it and felt its wetness against his skin and now it was haunting him, taunting him, never letting him forget.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine. Jackson was fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae threw himself beneath the shower head before he had a chance to have another panic attack, allowing the water to thunder down on top of him and drown out the gunshots still echoing in his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes. That way he wouldn’t see the crimson tinge in the fluid at his feet that he just couldn’t convince himself didn’t exist. His fingers fumbled with the shampoo bottles, still refusing to open his lids, and tipped an oversized dollop into his palm, attacking his hair with such a ferocity that it almost hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was still there. He didn’t need to look to see that. It was still there and it always would be and it was never going away because blood stained for life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was already on his fifth round of shampooing, scalp stinging from the soap suds, fingers rubbed raw, hair literally squeaking with cleanliness. And yet he couldn’t stop. Because it wasn’t enough. Not yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was there, fused into the backs of his eyelids. Jackson’s smile, Jackson’s laugh, Jackson’s jokes. Jackson throwing himself on top of Youngjae as bullets soared over their heads. Jackson bleeding beneath his fingers. Jackson’s blood donning his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shampoo round number twelve. He’d showered his way through three bottles, the stash on the shelf gradually dwindling as the containers were discarded on the floor at his feet, floating about in three inches of soapy water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still wasn’t enough. He wondered if it was ever going to be enough, but there was a number right in front of him, burning in the air, singing the oxygen molecules, taking away his breath until he agreed to acknowledge it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One number. His luckiest number.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he stopped, droplets still gushing over his bare body, hair plastered to his forehead, fingers throbbing and shoulders screaming from the strain. Eyes finally opened, he looked down at the collection of bottles bobbing about on the shower floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixteen washes. Sixteen dollops of shampoo. Sixteen rinses. Sixteen … Just like everything else. Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen. Sixteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixteen to be clean.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Sick. Weak. Injured.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>“Deep breath,” Jaebeom told him, and Youngjae inhaled obediently, picking at the skin around his fingernails. “Count to ten.”</span></p><p>
  <span>He counted to sixteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remember,” Jaebeom continued, fidgeting nervously as though he wasn’t quite sure whether he could touch the fragile creature before him. “It looks a lot worse than it is. He’s completely stable and he’s going to be okay. He’ll probably be asleep so don’t try to wake him. He needs his rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae nodded, tapping his finger against the side of his thigh. Once, twice, three times, four times … all the way up to sixteen. Because things were okay when he got to sixteen. Things were safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom pushed open the door, a tentative hand resting against the small of Youngjae’s back, and they stepped over the threshold into the whitewashed room with the beeping of machinery and the sucking of oxygen filtering through tubes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yugyeom was sitting beside the bed, holding the papery hand resting against the blankets, and when he raised his head at their entry, Youngjae saw the bags beneath his eyes and the misery painted in his every pore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there was Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a cannula threaded beneath his nose, lips parted ever so slightly as he breathed in his sleep. His chest was bare, revealing almond skin shaped perfectly over chiselled muscles, and the bandages stood out like a sore thumb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gunshot wound had been in a very awkward place. Youngjae realised that now. The gauze was wrapped around his upper arm, successfully swaddling his entire shoulder and then looping around the top of his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked so … hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I … I can’t be here,” Youngjae choked, stumbling backwards and shaking his head from side to side, unable to lift his gaze from Jackson’s motionless body. “I … I … can’t … I can’t be here … I need to … I need … home …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing his hyung lying there, eyes closed, muscles slack, was bringing it all back. The sight of him sprawled over the floor in a pool of his own blood, the artery in his shoulder spurting scarlet at an ungodly rate as Youngjae pressed against the wound, feeling his big brother’s pulse against his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I … I … I …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One. Two. Three. Four.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” came Jaebeom’s voice as he stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Jackson. “That’s okay, Youngjae. Let’s go. I’ll take you home. It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five. Six. Seven. Eight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He staggered back out into the corridor, clutching his chest and bending at the waist, desperately heaving air into his starving lungs even as Jaebeom knelt beside him and tried to talk him through the panic attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d said Jackson was fine. They’d said he was going to be okay. But he didn’t look fine. He didn’t look okay. He didn’t even look like Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He straightened up, releasing one, long shaky breath and reaching out to fasten his grip on Jaebeom’s shirt. There had to be something solid in front of him or the ground would just open up and he would be falling and falling and falling and he might never stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Jaebeom repeated, stepping closer so he could wrap his little brother in his arms and drop gentle kisses into his hair. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae was crying. Again. He never seemed to stop. He could only cry. And remember. And flashback. And scream and have panic attacks and count to sixteen. And cry. It was all he seemed to be good for at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to go home,” he whimpered, pulling away from the embrace and bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, wringing his hands at his sides in the hope that he’d be able to shake off some of the panic bubbling inside him. “Please … Take me home …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom’s arm slipped around his waist without further request, “Come on then. I’ve got you.”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>*****************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> <span>Blood. The blood was everywhere. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he touched, scarlet fluid blossomed into full view, dripping ominously from surfaces and oozing across the floors. It seeped into carpet, smeared over tiles, trickled down walls and stuck to his skin.</span></p><p>
  <span>It was everywhere. And Youngjae knew that it wasn’t, but it still was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had four showers. He’d thought that one would be enough so long as he put his hair through sixteen washes, but every time he’d stepped out onto the bathmat, he would look down at himself and see the crimson splodges clinging to his body and he’d have to get right back in again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would have been better if he’d had sixteen showers. But four would have to be enough, especially seeing as they’d completely run out of shampoo. And four was the square root of sixteen so it would still count. Right? Maybe …</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae knew that seeing Jackson had done this to him. He knew that the sight of him lying there brought back the memories he’d spent three days trying to forget, and now it was like that day all over again, playing on a loop inside his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he still wasn’t clean. Nothing was clean. Nothing and nowhere and everything and everywhere and anything and anywhere. Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have to clean,” he muttered to himself as he pumped hand soap onto a flannel and started attacking the bathroom floor. “Have to clean. Have to clean. Have to clean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His knees hurt, his fingers were wrinkled and prune-like, but he couldn’t stop. He had to clean. Everywhere. Everything. Anywhere. Anything. Right here, right now. He had to clean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have to clean. Have to clean. Have to clean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he did. He scrubbed the floor, the shower, the sink, the toilet and even the walls. He cleaned everything. And once the surfaces were done, he threw all the towels and toiletries in the wash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it still wasn’t enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have to clean. Have to clean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stripped off his clothes so that he was wearing nothing but his underwear and shoved them in the machine, drenching them in washing up liquid before turning on the device and watching the bubbles build up beneath the circle of glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have to clean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae?” came Jaebeom’s voice from somewhere behind him as he squirted carpet cleaner onto an orange juice stain in the living room and started abusing the fibres for all he was worth, desperate to leave it spotless. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have to clean,” Youngjae replied without looking up, knowing he must look crazy as he knelt on the ground, half-naked, with soapy water sloshed all over him. “Have to clean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw Jaebeom sink to his knees beside him out of the corner of his eye but he couldn’t stop. Not now. He could still see the blood. And it had to be gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move,” he growled at his leader, pushing him aside so he could get to the next bit of carpet. “Move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move. Have to clean. Have to clean. Have to clean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom’s hand reached out, closing around his wrist, trying to pull him away from his job. From his duty. Trying to stop him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have to clean!” Youngjae screamed at him, wrenching his wrist back and resuming his ritualistic scrubbing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew Jaebeom didn’t understand. He knew Jaebeom thought he was losing his mind, but he didn’t care. As long as there was still blood, he would keep cleaning. He had to. He had to clear up every last drop to stop it spreading further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To stop someone else from getting hurt so it could spread further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom couldn’t get in his way. Or somebody would get hurt. Youngjae knew that. It wasn’t rational, it didn’t make sense, but he was almost certain. If he didn’t wash every inch of this house then somebody would get hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t stop me,” he begged, dunking the sodden rag in the bucket of water beside him and wringing it out before beginning again. “I have to do this. I have to do this. I have to do this. I have to do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom left him and he breathed a sigh of relief, thinking for a moment that his hyung had decided just to let him do his thing, but then he was back and Youngjae’s chest was clenching in fear once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he stopped. He had to. The shock was too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can I do?” Jaebeom asked him as he got back down on his knees, holding a rag in his hand and placing a bucket at his side. “Tell me what I can do, Youngjae.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae took several more moments just to stare in disbelief before he felt gratitude flooding his entire body, pointing towards the sofa with a trembling, wrinkly finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clean that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jaebeom agreed, getting back up and beginning his task without further protest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae could feel the sideways glances and the concern that bled through his leader’s eyes but he ignored it. It didn’t matter. The only important thing was to clean, to get rid of the blood, to make everything shiny and new again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To make sure nobody else got hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not like Jackson. Jackson was hurt. They said Jackson was fine but Youngjae had seen evidence to the contrary. He hadn’t looked fine in that hospital bed. He’d looked sick. Weak. Injured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked just like the victim of a mass shooting, which was exactly what he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if Youngjae cleaned, Jackson would get better. Jackson would come home quicker if everything was clean. It had to be clean. So there would be no more blood. So Jackson wouldn’t be scared to be here. Like Youngjae was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door opened and Mark, Bambam and Jinyoung came home from some meeting they’d gone to at the company building, but Youngjae didn’t even glance up at them. He could recognise them by their footsteps anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel them stopping, staring, gawping at the shivering boy in his boxers mopping the kitchen floor for all he was worth. He heard Jaebeom whispering something that sounded similarly like, “I don’t know but just help,” and then everybody was asking him what he wanted them to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was grateful. They thought he was crazy, sure. But he was grateful. A crazy, grateful person who had to clean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And only when there was no more blood in sight would he be able to stop.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Time To Recover</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>Sixteen became his comfort blanket. His life revolved around it because it was the only thing that he could be certain was safe. Everything was always okay as soon as he reached the number sixteen.</span></p><p>
  <span>He awoke from his nightmares, drenched in sweat and whimpering Jackson’s name, but the gunshots ricocheting against his bedroom walls ceased fire as soon as he took sixteen deep breaths and touched the bedside lamp sixteen times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took four showers a day. Two in the morning. Two in the evening. Just to be certain that the blood was gone. Each one was sixteen minutes long exactly and he washed his hair exactly sixteen times. And the water finally ran clear instead of red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His room had to be spotless. Not a stain could blemish the carpet because if the light changed ever so slightly, his mind told him it was blood. So he washed it. Sixteen times a day. And the blood was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakfast consisted of sixteen grapes. Green, of course. Because the red ones reminded him of blood. And an apple. Cut into sixteen identical slices. Jaebeom had bought him a special corer that did the job for him otherwise he would stand at the kitchen counter for at least twenty minutes, measuring each segment with a ruler.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung and Mark cooked the other two daily meals but Youngjae refused to eat even a mouthful more than what he wanted: sixteen spoons. Sixteen times the metal bowl passed his lips and then that was it. He put the utensil down and pushed the plate away. And he no longer tasted blood on his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tuesday rolled around eventually and everything got two times worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shooting had been on a Tuesday and so everything had to be done thirty-two times. Only then would the streak be broken. Only then would Tuesdays be safe from bullets whizzing over Youngjae’s head as he lay on the ground and pretended to be dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t leave the house, he didn’t go to the studio, he didn’t go to visit Jackson. He just stayed in his room and cleaned. The outside world was too dangerous. Too dirty. Too close to a gunman and his murderous instincts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All their schedules and promotions had been cancelled, vague details of their situation posted on Twitter to appease the fans, and that made it easier to spiral further and further into a cycle from which he could never escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His members were understanding. They were patient. They let him carry out his little rituals and they sometimes helped him with the scrubbing and the mopping and the polishing, but he could tell they were stretched too thin. He could tell they were about to snap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was tiring. Having to clean, having to measure everything, having to touch certain things sixteen times and check certain things sixteen times and turn the lights on and off sixteen times before he went to sleep. He was hungry. He was exhausted. He hated it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae hated everything his body had to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t stop. Because if he did, he would see the blood. If he did, somebody would die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he couldn’t stop.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>******************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> <span>“Take it steady,” Jinyoung warned, reaching out his hands to stabilise his hyung as he clambered out of the car. “There’s no rush. Take your time.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Jackson sighed, trying to filter the ice from his voice because he knew Jinyoung was just trying to help even if he felt like he was being smothered by cautious warnings and concerned questions. “I’m fine, Jinyoung.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped out onto the pavement, readjusting the sling that pinned his arm against his body and suppressing a wince as his wound was jostled ever so slightly, but as soon as he saw the sight of his dorm – his home – at the top of the garden path, any pain or irritation dissipated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No more hospitals. No more blood pressure readings. No more scans and doctors and that disgusting processed food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three weeks he’d been locked up in that place, forbidden even from going to the bathroom by himself as everybody insisted he was fragile and weak when all he wanted to do was get up and go home to Youngjae.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got the bag,” Bambam called, emerging from the other side of the car with the duffel slung over his shoulder. “You good, hyung?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m good,” Jackson dismissed with a wave of his uninjured hand and before Jinyoung could stop him and demand that he be carried to the front door, he was already trudging up the garden path. “I’m good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t stupid. He knew Youngjae had deliberately been avoiding visits even though the others told him the kid was just too tired to leave the house for too long a period of time. But it was okay now. He was okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Youngjae would be okay, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached out to ring the doorbell but Yugyeom opened it before he could sound the alarm, the maknae’s wide grin standing out perfectly against the backdrop to Jackson’s one and only home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to be back?” the kid asked and Jackson smirked, ruffling his hair affectionately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to be back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark and Jaebeom emerged from the living room to greet him just as Jinyoung and Bambam stepped over the threshold with all the bags from the hospital, and Jackson almost felt like he was complete again. Like none of those horrors had happened at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Youngjae?” he asked, a little timidly, nervous that his request to see the younger boy would be refused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause among the people in front of him as Mark and Jaebeom exchanged a worried look, and Jackson started to wonder if maybe this was it. This was how Got7 came to an end. Not because of the shooting that had nearly killed him but because Youngjae was too terrified to even be in the same room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s upstairs,” Jaebeom conceded. “In his room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson nodded, a genuine smile breaking out over his face but just as he started towards the bottom of the steps, the leader grabbed his elbow and held him back. The others seemed to realise his intent because they dissipated like mist, busying themselves with unpacking Jackson’s bags while the two talked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s …” Jaebeom started, and Jackson could see the conflict in his eyes. “He’s fragile, Jackson. The shooting really messed him up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had messed them all up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Jackson nodded reassuringly. “I’ll be gentle. I just want to see him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom still looked unsure but Jackson was grateful when he finally relinquished his tether and allowed the boy to plod steadily up the stairs, injured arm bound across his chest and uninjured arm leaning heavily on the bannister for support.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d told them that he didn’t remember the shooting. It was easier that way. They weren’t worrying about his mental state, they weren’t watching him for signs of PTSD and, most importantly, they weren’t asking questions he didn’t want to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But none of it was true. He remembered every second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered the first gunshot and the terror that had coursed through his body at the sound of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered the bodyguard falling, eyes blown wide in a split second of unimaginable fear before his heart stopped and he hit the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered throwing himself on top of Youngjae, shielding the kid’s head and telling him to stay still, hoping against hope that the gunman would think they were dead.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered the blinding agony of a bullet piercing his shoulder before the darkness closed in around him as he grappled with its tentacles until finally giving in to its shroud of oblivion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered every last detail, and he knew that singular moment would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae?” he called out, wrapping his knuckles on the bedroom door and stepping back, nervously awaiting a reply. “Youngjae, it’s Jackson-hyung. Can I come in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, there was nothing, and he wondered if the boy was deliberately ignoring him. But then there was a thump and a scuffle and then a very, very slow creak as the door was opened just enough to reveal half a pale face and a wide, unblinking eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hyung?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Jackson greeted softly, trying to smile as warmly as he could when it was so hard to look at Youngjae after so long spent apart. “Can … Will you let me in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door slammed in his face and his world crashed down around him. Everything was too loud and too much and too sudden and the little brother he’d lain on top of in the middle of a mass shooting had just rejected to see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was just about to turn away, already blinking back tears, when there was a knock on the door that had just been shut. But this time, it was from the inside. Multiple knocks, one after the other, equally spaced apart and, from the sound of it, in the exact same place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were a lot of them. Over a dozen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the door opened fully and Youngjae was standing there, socked toes curling in the carpet and freshly-washed hair tumbling over his slightly-sunken skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” he returned shortly and Jackson couldn’t stop himself from stumbling over the threshold and wrapping the boy in his one good arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” he whispered, feeling the body in his grip tense and stiffen, knowing that the embrace wasn’t being returned but too emotional to care. “I missed you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled back and surveyed the state of the boy before him and the room around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was clean. Very, very clean. Uncharacteristically clean. Everything was ordered neatly, the old dingy carpet had been replaced with a new and spotless one and, if his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, the books on the shelf were ordered alphabetically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been busy,” he stated, trying to introduce some humour into a very stiff and awkward conversation. “I never knew you could be so tidy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae just nodded, tapping his fingers on his thighs and staring at the floor. He was yet to utter more than two words and it was starting to scare Jackson out of his mind. Jaebeom had told him that the kid was fragile and damaged and traumatised beyond imagination but this … this was something else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How …” he started, his voice cracking slightly. “How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Youngjae mumbled, and Jackson opened his mouth to ask another question before he was abruptly cut off by an endless mantra of that very same word. “Fine. Fine, fine. Fine, fine, fine. Fine, fine. Fine. Fine, fine. Fine, fine, fine. Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stared. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if Youngjae was just trying to fill the silence or if there was something else going on. Something that Jaebeom had failed to mention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s … That’s good, Youngjae. I …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was cut off again but, this time, the interruption was more than gratefully received.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That one sentence, so quiet that it was barely audible, seemed to break the tension between them and Jackson physically felt himself deflating in relief. He had truly been starting to think that Youngjae never wanted to see him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flopped down on the edge of the bed and Youngjae sat beside him, their shoulders pressed together and their feet ever so slightly overlapping on the floor. They just revelled in the feeling of the other by their side, knowing that even though they’d been through hell, they’d both survived.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you,” Youngjae muttered shamefully, still with his gaze averted and still tapping rhythmically against his thighs. “It was just … The hospital … It was too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Jackson dismissed, reaching out to take the kid’s hand and stop his mindless tapping. “I know –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cut himself off, stunned into silence when Youngjae pulled free from his grip and resumed the silent beat his fingers were drumming on his leg. He didn’t even appear to have realised he’d thrown his hyung off so rudely. And such an action just … wasn’t him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“– it’s been hard for you, too,” Jackson finished, returning his rejected hand to his lap and fiddling with the hem of his sling. Youngjae was still tapping. “Are you … Youngjae, are you mad at me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s gaze snapped up at that, eyes bulging to the size of saucers as his jaw dropped open and he frantically shook his head. But his fingers never stopped that tarantella they were dancing against his sweatpants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No … Why would you think … No!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jackson soothed, wanting to reach out and pull the kid into a hug but unsure whether he would just get pushed away again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saved my life,” Youngjae cut across him, his eyes starting to well up ever so slightly at the words. “You … You took a bullet for me. How could I be mad at you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They spoke no more on the matter after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae brought out his laptop, knocked on the top of it multiple times before opening it up and accessing Netflix. They laid out over the bed, Jackson’s good arm around his best friend’s shoulders and just watched a movie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was nice, being together for the first time since the shooting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jackson wasn’t blind. Something was wrong with Youngjae and, by the looks of it, it wasn’t something that could just be fixed with a few kind words and a couple of hugs. Something was </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>with Youngjae.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you talking about?” Jaebeom asked, lips stretched thin and shoulders tense as Jackson confronted him about it that evening. “He’s got PTSD, Jackson. Of course he’s struggling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it’s more than that,” Jackson insisted, pulling out a chair and sinking into it so he and Jaebeom were on eye level. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the tapping and the repetition and the weird way everything’s organised in his room. That’s not PTSD. That’s something else. He needs help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s fine,” Jaebeom snapped back. “He just needs time to recover.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jae –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was conscious!” Jaebeom spat, and there was a crack in his voice as large as the Nile. “He was conscious the entire time. You got shot and you passed out, but he was conscious. When we got to him, he was soaked in so much blood that we couldn’t even tell what colour his clothes were underneath. He isn’t just going to get over that, Jackson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson didn’t know what to say after that.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>Youngjae was fine. Absolutely fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Jackson was home. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. The media coverage was finally dying down. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. The fans still didn’t know the two of them had been in the shooting. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.</span></p><p>
  <span>And then he walked into the kitchen. And he wasn’t fine after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His little rituals kept him safe. He had flashbacks and nightmares, of course, but fewer panic attacks and fewer breakdowns, and it was all because of that precious number: sixteen. It protected him. He wouldn’t feel nearly as secure without it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a normal morning. He’d woken from yet another dream where he relived the experiences of that night over and over and over again but he’d shaken it off and he’d climbed out of bed and he’d had his two showers and washed his hair sixteen times and he was okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ambled down the stairs, already preparing himself for his sixteen grapes and finely-sliced apple. The soft rumble of voices was emanating from the kitchen but he thought nothing of it and opened the door, shuffling onto the smooth tiles … and freezing on the spot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop squirming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It hurts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, but this isn’t exactly easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was sitting on the table, his shirt balled up in his lap and his eyes screwed shut in what was clearly an expression of pain, and Jinyoung was standing beside him, carefully dabbing at the gunshot wound with a wad of white fabric.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was healing. It was closing. It was getting better. It no longer looked like the gaping chasm Youngjae had dug his fingers into all those weeks ago in the concert venue lobby. But Jinyoung’s clumsy administrations had opened it up again and beads of blood were smudging Jackson’s skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gunshots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae!” Jackson gasped, his eyes widening as both he and Jinyoung spotted the younger boy swaying in the doorway with hands that trembled and skin as white as paper. “Youngjae, it’s okay. I’m fine. We’re just changing the bandages. It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gunshots.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, come here,” Jinyoung started, taking a step forwards and reaching out towards his little brother, but his fingertips were tinted scarlet and Youngjae staggered backwards in terror. “Youngjae …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again. Jackson was bleeding again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had no idea when he’d started moving but suddenly he was thundering up the stairs, his socks slipping on the carpet and his shoulders heaving with ill-contained panic. The others were probably yelling after him, following him, but he didn’t care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to clean. Now. He had to clean everything. Because Jackson was bleeding again. And as long as Jackson was bleeding, he was still in danger and Youngjae still had to save him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He started where he always started: the bathroom, flinging himself on his knees the moment he crossed the threshold and practically wrestling the cleaning supplies out of the cupboard beneath the sink. The pungent aroma of the bleach was suffocating him within minutes but it didn’t matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drenched the washcloth and started his mindless ritual of scrubbing back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, working at the polished tiles so hard that bits of flannel started to break off and snag in the cracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark slipped immediately upon entry, throwing out his arm and only just catching himself on the sink before he could fall flat on his ass. Once he’d recovered, however, he crouched down beside his little brother and tried to take his hands, tried to pull him away from his cleansing journey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, stop …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Youngjae shouted, shoving his hyung backwards, oblivious to Jackson, Jinyoung and Yugyeom staring with wide eyes from the doorway. “Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae,” Mark tried again, crawling closer and gently laying his hands on the kid’s shoulders. “It’s okay. You don’t have to clean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up!” Youngjae screamed so loudly he thought his throat might have torn. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut-shut-shut-shut up! Shut up! Shut up-up-up-up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There were tears on his face and soap beneath his fingernails but the only liquid he cared about was the blood seeping across the floor, reaching out its scarlet tendrils with every intention of poisoning him. Of hurting him. Of taking Jackson from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hyung!” Yugyeom called out, seeming to break out of his trance as he joined his friends on the soap-sodden floor and seized Youngjae by the wrists. “You can stop! You can stop now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Youngjae fought him. He fought as hard as he possibly could, trying to wrench his hands free and even swivelling round onto his butt so he could kick the youngest in the stomach. But even those efforts were thwarted by Mark grabbing him from behind, wrapping his arms around the boy’s chest and effectively restraining him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me go!” he screeched at the top of his lungs, struggling for all he was worth and snapping his head from side to side. “Let me go! I have to keep cleaning! You have to let me keep cleaning!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Yugyeom asked him, his voice cracking at the sight of seeing his hyung in so much distress. “Why do you have to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An awful, guttural, strangled sob bubbling up Youngjae’s throat and spilled from his lips. He wanted to reach up and swipe the tears, snot, spit and sweat from his face but they were still holding him too tightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because someone will die if I don’t!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sounded crazy. It sounded insane. He sounded like he’d well and truly lost the plot but, for him, it was true. If every inch of this house wasn’t scrubbed until it shone whiter than white, the poison would continue to be spilt. Jackson would continue to bleed. And then he would die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let him go …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice was so soft that Youngjae didn’t hear it at first over the sound of his own sobbing but when Jackson raised his tone, the words rang out crystal clear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yugyeom, Mark-hyung, let go of him! Let him clean!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a moment where Youngjae couldn’t fight anymore. Where his body was so overcome with shock and exhaustion and relief and terror and so many other emotions all at once that he couldn’t get his muscles to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when Mark’s arms retracted from around his chest and Yugyeom’s fingers relinquished their grip on his wrists, his instincts kicked in and he lunged for the bottle of bleach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to clean. Now. He had to do it now. He’d wasted enough time already. And the blood was still spreading. Closer. Closer. Closer. It had to go. He had to get rid of it. Now. He had to clean. For Jackson. For everybody. Clean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the back of his mind, he heard Jaebeom’s voice, lathered with concern, as the leader came stumbling down the hallway, but he was too focused on the task at hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was probably a good thing, too. Because if he hadn’t been totally at one with the cleaning supplements in his hands then he probably would have seen Jackson turning to Jaebeom with his jaw set and his eyes narrowed and he would have heard the words that were spat with nothing but contempt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still think he’s fine?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Pain And Suffering</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>“Choi Youngjae, please.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s head snapped up from between hunched shoulders as the woman with the white coat and sleek black hair pinned into a bun called his name from the front of the waiting room, her lips stretched thin and a smile that was probably intended to be warm but just looked clinical and stiff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be told he was crazy and pumped full of pills that would turn him docile and dumb and reduce him to a mere shadow of his former self. The former self that he couldn’t actually recognise anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t make me do this,” he whispered up at Jaebeom, watching as his hyung’s face crumpled with sympathy. “Please …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll come with you,” the leader stated firmly, taking hold of Youngjae’s hand and pulling him up from the itchy padded seats they’d resided in for the last twenty minutes, waiting for his name to be announced. “You’ll be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman – the shrink – widened her fake smile and extended an arm towards a door on her left, indicating for them to go first, and Jaebeom gave Youngjae’s fingers a tight squeeze before he stepped into the pastel-painted office, tugging his terrified little brother with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were only chairs. No sofa. So Jaebeom couldn’t sit beside him and as soon as his warmth was gone, Youngjae felt inordinately vulnerable without his hyung holding his hand and wordlessly reassuring him that everything was going to be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice to meet you, Youngjae-ssi,” the doctor said as she settled herself directly opposite him with her legs crossed and a clipboard resting on her knee. “My name is Dr Kwon and I’m going to ask you a few questions to see if we can ascertain the cause of your recent struggles. Is that okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Not really. But as Youngjae looked to Jaebeom, silently pleading for release one last time, and saw the heartbroken refusal on his leader’s face, he knew that this was something he was just going to have to deal with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started tapping, fingers drumming a silent rhythm on his thighs and his leg bouncing on the ball of his foot, trying to release the nervous energy that was sizzling inside of him. Sixteen taps to the right leg, sixteen to the left and repeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now then … Can you tell me what exactly has brought you here today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae turned to Jaebeom yet again, still tapping, still wordlessly begging his hyung to get him out of this horribly uncomfortable situation. He didn’t want to be analysed and studied until a diagnosis was stapled to his chest and he was pumped full of pills.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me to do the talking?” Jaebeom asked and Youngjae nodded silently. “Okay, well … Youngjae was in the Hongdae shooting a few weeks ago along with a friend of ours, Jackson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae flinched unconsciously and he wasn’t sure whether it was the mention of Jackson or of the shooting itself that had procured such a violent reaction from him but he could tell Dr Kwon had noticed. He tried to shrink further into his seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson got hit and, uh … Well, he’s okay now … but … Youngjae … you haven’t been the same since.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae lowered his gaze shamefully, focusing instead on the monotonous rhythm his fingertips were playing against his jean-clad legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t mean to be a burden. He didn’t want to be this way: scared of everything that moved and compelled to take a shower whenever certain people touched him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that understandable?” Kwon asked, glancing up from the notes she was scribbling on her paper pad. “Youngjae-ssi, you’ve been through something incredibly traumatic. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t seem a little different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I thought,” Jaebeom continued when Youngjae didn’t show any sign of speaking up, edging his chair closer so he could reach across and hold his hand. Youngjae shook him off. He had to keep tapping. “But it’s more than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he launched into a painfully detailed description of just how difficult Youngjae had made their lives since that awful night which seemed so long ago and yet remained as vivid as if it were yesterday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spoke about the obsessive cleaning, the showers, the food he ate and the way he ate it, the certain words and actions he couldn’t help but repeat over and over and over again, the attacks he had at the sight of even a drop of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was true. Every word of it. Youngjae could see that now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before, he hadn’t realised just how bad he’d gotten, hadn’t realised just how extensive this sickness – or whatever he was about to be diagnosed with – was, but he could hear the pain and worry in Jaebeom’s voice and it only made him feel guiltier for being so broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Youngjae-ssi,” Kwon directed at her patient when Jaebeom’s report stuttered to a hopeless stop. “Why do you feel as if you have to do these things? What do you think will happen if you don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae raised his head for the first time since his hyung had started speaking, the ritualistic drumming of his fingers in his lap increasing in speed as he opened his mouth and uttered the only thing he was certain of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somebody’s going to die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom inhaled sharply to his right. But he didn’t look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I can’t clean and do everything sixteen times then somebody will die. I know it doesn’t make sense. You probably think I’m crazy, but sixteen is safe. And as long as there’s no blood, as long as nobody’s bleeding, nobody will die. I’m just … I’m just trying to keep us safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It may sound like complete bullshit to them, just the ramblings of a person who’d lost their mind to trauma, but to Youngjae, it made perfect sense. It was the most logical thing in the world. It was the only thing he was sure was real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae-ssi, I think you definitely have post-traumatic stress disorder but I’m also recognising multiple symptoms in your behaviour and in the information Jaebeom-ssi has given me that would point to obsessive compulsive disorder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And apparently, that thing was a disease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae felt like he’d been hit by a train, just flattened into the tracks like he was worth less than the cigarette butts buried in the gravel. He’d been expecting some kind of diagnosis, but OCD? No. Never. Not him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I …” he stuttered, so stunned that he momentarily forgot to tap. “I … I’m not … No …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Jaebeom tried to soothe, reaching out once more for his little brother’s hand only to be rejected just like the last time. “Youngjae, please … It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was numb. Too numb to speak. Too numb to do anything but sit there and listen with deaf ears as Jaebeom and Dr Kwon discussed medication and regular psychiatry appointments and cognitive behavioural therapy, whatever the fuck that was supposed to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally left the clinic what felt like hours later, the company car was waiting for them and Youngjae curled up into the tiniest ball in the corner of the leather seats, as far away from Jaebeom as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As far away from the pills in his leader’s hands as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not have OCD. He refused to believe it. Somebody like him couldn’t have OCD. Idols couldn’t have OCD. It just wasn’t allowed. It was too destructive. And too distracting. And too unattractive. If anybody ever found out … He would be ruined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why hadn’t it been him who’d taken the bullet in that shooting?</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>******************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> <span>Jaebeom couldn’t suppress the sigh that bubbled up his throat when, not even a second after he’d opened the front door, Youngjae sprinted up the stairs with his head hung low and his mask concealing his face from view.</span></p><p>
  <span>He knew he’d found the psychiatrist’s appointment difficult and it had been torture for the leader, too. Having to watch his little brother – one of the people he wanted to protect most in the world – be told that he had a mental disorder when that was something idols weren’t allowed to have. It had been almost unbearable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced up and caught sight, for the first time, of Mark and Jackson sitting on the couch, a movie paused on the television screen in front of them. Jaebeom let out another sigh and gestured for Mark to budge up so he could collapse down beside them, careful not to jar Jackson’s sling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t good,” he groaned, rubbing the spot just above his eyebrow as a headache began to develop. “He got diagnosed with PTSD and OCD and he has a tonne of pills that he needs to take every day to try and keep it under control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, wasn’t that what we were expecting?” Mark reasoned, reaching over to squeeze Jaebeom’s thigh. “That he had OCD? It’s not like it’s a shock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it was for him. He’s devastated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The distinct sound of the water pipes humming cut through the silence and they heard the shuddering slam of a shower door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to order more shampoo,” Mark informed them. “He’s going through at least four bottles a day at the moment. Isn’t there anything the psychiatrist said we can do for him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom shook his head, “Just therapy. And making sure that he doesn’t get any worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to Jackson who hadn’t said a word since he’d walked in, just sitting there with blank, unstaring eyes as his good hand played with the strap of his sling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson, you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson opened his mouth, looking as though he were about to say something, but then he closed it again and shook his head, “It’s nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom wanted to push the matter further but Mark gave his thigh a particularly tight squeeze, shaking his head subtly from side to side to portray the silent message: </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave him be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was only then that Jaebeom remembered – much to his own dismay and self-hatred – that Jackson had been in the shooting, too. Jackson had felt metal piercing his skin and slicing through his arteries. Jackson had been the one to throw himself on top of Youngjae in a desperate attempt to protect him from the pain and suffering he would endure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only, Youngjae </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> in pain. Youngjae </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> suffering. And everything Jackson had done seemed like it was for nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They remained sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, as Mark resumed the movie and the cheesy love story played out right in front of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nobody was watching. Nobody was paying even the slightest bit of attention to anything that wasn’t the sound of Youngjae taking the longest shower yet.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Faith In The Pills</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>His morning rituals took him at least an hour and a half, making sure that his hair was brushed exactly the right number of times and the books on his shelf were still arranged alphabetically despite the fact that nobody ever moved them. And so it was almost midmorning by the time Youngjae had pulled together the strength and courage to get out of bed and had made it down to the kitchen.</span></p><p>
  <span>“You’re up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sudden intrusion on his sensory nerves made him jump and a blossom of guilt instantly bloomed in his gut at the sight of Bambam’s guilty expression as he shrank back against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he mumbled shamefully. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Youngjae shot back, too tired to come up with a better reassurance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Less than twenty-four hours since he’d been diagnosed with OCD and, already, they were treating him like he was about to shatter any second. Like he wasn’t safe in his own skin. Like he was frail and fragile and vulnerable to even the slightest touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hated it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring the fact that Bambam was still staring at him like he was a bomb about to explode, Youngjae sidled over to the countertop and started pulling the fruit from the fridge. He bridged the strawberries and picked each grape off the stem, arranging them in colour-coded segments on his plate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until he turned around and started towards the table that he realised why Bambam was helicoptering so diligently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little orange bottle sitting on the varnished wood, full up with little white nuggets that were somehow supposed to magically return him to normal. To stop him from ripping his own hair out every time something wasn’t in the right place. To erase the shooting from his memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like that would be happening any time soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wished he could kick up a fuss, snatch up the bottle and hurl it across the room so it shattered against the wall, but then they would just get him some more. They would send him back to that doctor with the infuriatingly fake smile. They wouldn’t let him off that easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he acted as if Bambam weren’t inspecting his every move, waiting for the moment that he willingly took his medication, and he popped open the cap as though it were something he did every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Happy?” he snarled, unceremoniously harsh, as the pill clawed its way down his dry throat. “All drugged up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bambam’s face crumpled into one of sympathetic guilt and it was almost heart-wrenching enough to make Youngjae feel apologetic. Almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” the younger boy whispered, and he really did look it, too. “I’m sorry that this is so hard for you, hyung. I’m sorry you’re hurting. And I’m sorry I don’t know what to say to make you feel better. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, he left, abandoning Youngjae to eat his neatly chopped fruit alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t understand why the human mind was so fucked up. Sure, he had been through something awful and he would never forget it for the rest of his life, but that was over now. Couldn’t he move on? Couldn’t he just … be okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did his nightmares have to be so frequent? Why did his flashbacks have to be so intense? Why was his fear so paralysing and his paranoia so powerful and his brain so fucking twisted when it had been almost three months since he’d cowered on that concert venue floor?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was he so sick when Jackson was fine? It was greedy. It was pathetic. Jackson had been shot and yet he wasn’t being shipped off to psychiatrists and pumped full of pills and tattooed with diagnoses. Youngjae hadn’t had a scratch on him and yet he was enduring every single one of those things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was wrong with him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to go back to how it was before. To how easy it was to laugh and joke and play video games and just fucking walk down the stairs without having to count each step and avoid the one with the tea stain that looked like blood. He wanted to be an idol again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he was broken. Beyond repair, it seemed. Not that they weren’t trying. The drugs on the table in front of him were proof that they were trying. But a few anxiety meds weren’t exactly going to solve the onslaught of compulsions that ruined his existence every single day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finished his breakfast and spent exactly sixteen minutes washing the same dish before padding back up the stairs, listening for any signs of life from his fellow inhabitants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was who he was looking for. Jackson was who he wanted to talk to. To ask how he could just be so okay with everything that had happened. Whatever magic remedy he was using, whatever meditation technique or sleeping pattern, whatever it was – even if it were drugs – Youngjae wanted some of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except Jackson wasn’t in his room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or the bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or any other room in the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Youngjae started to panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have a hospital appointment because Youngjae had written down all those dates so he knew which days he had to perform extra rituals on in order to ensure his hyung was healthy. He wasn’t at the company building because all their schedules had been cancelled indefinitely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nowhere he should be that wasn’t here in this dorm where he was safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he wasn’t, and that was bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was out there somewhere. He could be in danger. He could be hurt. He could be bleeding. Somebody could be firing a gun at him right this very moment. He wasn’t okay. He wasn’t protected. He was going to die. Youngjae had to save him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae had to bring him home right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was gasping for breath, repeating meaningless comforts in his head as he skidded into the bathroom and started ripping cleaning supplies from the cupboard beneath the sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to clean. Everything had to be clean. To stop the blood from spreading. To stop the bleeding. To stop the shooting. Everything had to be clean right now. To save Jackson. To bring Jackson home. To protect Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Jackson was gone. He wasn’t where he should be and that meant he was missing. Youngjae didn’t know where he was. That was bad. That was very, very bad because he wasn’t safe out there on his own. He wasn’t safe. It wasn’t safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bad. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Blood. Bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started in the bathroom, like he always did. On the top floor at the far left of the house. He could work his way downwards systematically but only after he ensured that each inch had been scrubbed exactly sixteen times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had to be sixteen. Sixteen was safe. Jackson needed safe. Jackson needed sixteen. So it had to be sixteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bad. Bad. Blood. Blood. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Blood. Bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His knees were probably bruising from all this kneeling. His fingers were stinging from the soap. He back was throbbing from hunching over at such an awkward angle but it didn’t matter. This is what he had to do for Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was crying, and that was the most frustrating thing of all. He was so terrified for his hyung – for his best friend who was </span>
  <em>
    <span>missing </span>
  </em>
  <span>– that he couldn’t keep the tears from falling. And so they splattered the floor beneath his face, tarnishing the polish he’d only just applied and forcing him to start all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bad. Blood. Blood. Blood. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Blood. Blood. Bad. Blood. Bad. Bad. Blood. Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung. No. He didn’t want Jinyoung. He wanted Jackson. Jinyoung had to go away. Jinyoung couldn’t stop him because this was for Jackson. This was the only way Jackson was going to survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, talk to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave me alone!” Youngjae panted through gasping sobs, elbowing his hyung in the ribs as he knelt beside him. “I don’t want you here! Go away!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jinyoung wasn’t moving. And he was so calm. Why were they always so calm? Why weren’t they panicking like he was? Why weren’t they cleaning with him? Why weren’t they helping him protect Jackson?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Bad. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Bad. Blood. Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, stop. It’s okay. You don’t need to do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were fingers on his wrists, trying to pry the washcloth from his hands, and Youngjae had no idea where the scream came from but suddenly it was bursting from his throat like some kind of feral animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go away!” he screeched dementedly, shoving Jinyoung backwards and returning his attention to the floor which had, by now, been contaminated all over again. “You’re going to kill him! I have to do this or he’s going to die!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson-hyung!” Youngjae wailed, dropping the cloth and fisting his hands in his own hair, desperately wanting to rip the strands from his scalp. “Jackson-hyung’s going to die if I don’t do this! He’s gone! He’s gone and I have to save him! I have to save him right now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t care what they thought. He didn’t care if they didn’t believe him. He knew what he had to do and even though the logical part of his brain told him that it made no sense, he couldn’t resist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bambam,” he heard Jinyoung hiss over his shoulder, clearly addressing the person who’d been hovering in the doorway for some time now. “Go call Jackson. Get him back here now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae wasn’t listening as he dived for the bucket, snatching up the washcloth and drenching it through and through, wringing out any excess water and slapping it against the floor to resume the task that was going to save his big brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“GO AWAY!” Youngjae screamed, so loudly that he swore he felt something tear in his throat. “GO AWAY!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me how to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what got Youngjae to stop, just momentarily, but stop all the same. It was Jinyoung’s offering of assistance that truly shocked him to his core because it was the very last thing he’d expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought they’d passed this point. This point where they knelt by his side on the unforgiving bathroom floor tiles and helped him mop and polish and scrub because they knew it would make him feel better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought they’d placed all their faith in the pills they were shovelling down his throat and the psychiatrist who was apparently supposed to magic him back to a normal person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me how to help,” Jinyoung repeated, holding out his hands to willingly accept whatever Youngjae handed him. “Tell me what I can do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae could barely see what he was doing through the tears that just refused to stop falling but, somehow, he managed to thrust a spare washcloth into his hyung’s outstretched hand and gesture vaguely at the countertop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sixteen times,” he rasped, his voice sounding like fingernails on sandpaper. “Scrub each spot sixteen times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jinyoung acknowledged, moving across the room to begin his own task. “You got it, Youngjae.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Anyone else feel like you're living in some kind of groundhog-day-esque universe where there's no point to anything and you have no motivation to do even the slightest thing like get up and brush your teeth and so you just lie in bed wondering what the hell is your purpose in life and where you're supposed to be going and who the hell is ever going to love you when you can't even love yourself? No? Just me? Okay.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Get To Disappear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for the comments on the last chapter. I don't know what was going through my head but I was in need of some serious love and you guys delivered. </p><p>Please be wary of this chapter. It's very graphic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>He had no idea how long they crouched there in complete silence, save for Youngjae’s occasionally sniffles and stifled sobs, as the varnish was scraped off the panels with the ferocity they attacked it.</span></p><p>
  <span>All he knew was that Jackson was going to live as long as they did this. As long as they cleaned until they physically could not clean anymore. Until it was safe enough for him to come home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then there was the distinctive sound of the front door crashing open, accompanied by Jackson’s voice yelling something unintelligible and footsteps thundering up the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they weren’t finished yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s head snapped up so fast that he must have gotten whiplash and he stared with wide, teary eyes up at the person who came barrelling through the door and threw himself down on his knees in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here,” Jackson panted, his free hand reaching out to take Youngjae’s. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m okay. You can stop now. I’m okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t make sense. Jackson was home and yet Youngjae hadn’t finished cleaning. Jackson couldn’t have come home until Youngjae had finished cleaning. But he was home. And Youngjae hadn’t finished. It didn’t make sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung straightened up, his joints audibly clicking as they were stretched after so long crouching on the floor, and stepped out into the hallway to make more space in the cramped bathroom.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark, Yugyeom and Bambam were there, too, watching with teeth nibbling on lips and gnawing on fingernails. But Youngjae wasn’t paying attention to them. He only had eyes for Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here now. I’m sorry I left without telling you but …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did you go?!” Youngjae screamed, lunging forwards and fisting both hands in his hyung’s shirt as a fresh tsunami of tears washed over his face. “Where did you go, you bastard? Where did you go?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson gave a grunt of pain as his injured shoulder was jostled and Mark started forwards to intervene before the victim of the sudden assault threw out an arm to signal that he stay back and let him handle this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where were you?” Youngjae continued to sob, letting go of Jackson only to start pummelling his good arm with both fists. “Where were you? Where were you? Why did you leave? Why didn’t you tell me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry!” Jackson cried out in response, grabbing hold of Youngjae’s wrist in an attempt to stop the pathetic beating he was receiving. “I’m sorry. Mark-hyung, Gyeom and I just went out for a bit. I thought we’d be home before you woke up. I’m sorry, Youngjae.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense and it was all too much. Jackson shouldn’t have come home before Youngjae had completed his rituals and yet he had. It didn’t make sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry …” Jackson was repeating, his own voice cracking beneath the weight of emotion. “I’m sorry, Youngjae. I won’t do it again. I promise. I won’t leave without telling you first. I swear to you, Youngjae. I won’t …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t get to disappear!” Youngjae bawled, moving his hands up to Jackson’s face and digging his fingernails into the soft skin, needing to feel something that was real and solid beneath his touch. “You don’t get to just disappear like that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why would he be so careless? Why would he knowingly put himself in danger like that without telling Youngjae that he had to make the world safe for him again? Why would he even set foot outside this dorm when he knew what was out there?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why was he just so … okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You lay on top of me!” Youngjae kept screaming, oblivious to anything else that was going on around him because all that existed was him and Jackson and the lesson that needed to be taught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You lay on top of me in a fucking shooting! You took a bullet for me! Why didn’t you let me die? Why didn’t you let me? It should have been me! You bled out in my arms and it should have been me! So you don’t get to disappear! Okay? Ever! You don’t ever get to disappear again because you lay on top of me in a fucking shooting and then you bled out in my arms!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still wasn’t finished. He had so much more to say. So many more questions he had to ask and so many insults he had to shriek until he was blue in the face and choke up his own tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he never got the chance as all the adrenaline and all the fear and all the anger seemed to just drain from his body as he finally accepted the fact that Jackson was here and Jackson was okay and Jackson wasn’t lying on that floor with a fresh gunshot wound in his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why aren’t you hurting?” he whispered as he slumped forwards into his hyung’s chest, all his bones disappearing from his body. “Why aren’t you broken, too? Why aren’t you a mess?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt Jackson’s arm around his back, clamping him close, holding him there, comforting him. He was shaking. Maybe crying, maybe not. But shaking anyway. Youngjae didn’t get a chance to find out why because he passed out less than ten seconds later.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>***********************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> <span>It happened eight days later. The incident that would, many years later, be referred to as the “OCDC”.</span></p><p>
  <span>Obsessive Compulsive Disorder Catalyst. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no specific trigger. Nothing that stood out. Youngjae just woke up one morning with the undeniable feeling that something awful was going to happen. He couldn’t explain why or how he knew, but he just did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, in a way, he was right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He arose at 6:16 on the spot, just like he did every day. He knocked on the wall above his headboard sixteen times, just like he did every day. He turned the bedside lamp on and off sixteen times, just like he did every day. And then he got up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took his medication, he shuffled into the bathroom, he ensured that all his bottles and boxes were ordered alphabetically and colour coded just like they should be, he turned on the tap to ready himself for his sixteen-minute facewash session and something just … happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was right there, right in front of him, reflected back in the mirror. He could feel it, dripping over his skin, weighing down his hair and his clothes, suffocating him with its stench and lining his throat with copper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Blood everywhere. Literally everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down at his hands and saw it crusted in his fingernails and smudged all the way up his arms, individual droplets dribbling into the sink to paint the pristine porcelain with scarlet poker dots.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Blood everywhere. Literally everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson’s blood? Maybe. His blood? Maybe. Someone else’s? Maybe that, too. It didn’t matter who it belonged to or whose body it had just vacated because it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>on </span>
  </em>
  <span>him and </span>
  <em>
    <span>in </span>
  </em>
  <span>him and </span>
  <em>
    <span>all around </span>
  </em>
  <span>him and he needed it gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scrubbed. He scrubbed until his fingertips bled and that only added to his hysteria. He plugged the sink and watched it fill up, emptying an entire bottle of soap into the basin, concocting some kind of bubble explosion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Red-tinted, blood-smeared bubble explosion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, he started crying, and he could have sworn that his tears were scarlet and splotchy, just like everything else around him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he could barely even stand anymore such was the panic that engulfed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because the blood just wasn’t washing off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of his rituals were working. The number sixteen wasn’t keeping him safe like it had all this time. It was failing him, and so long as it was failing him, somebody was going to die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he grabbed the bleach from underneath the sink and practically drenched his hands in the undiluted acid, grating them against each other with increasing ferocity, vision blurred through tears of both pain and panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agony was indescribable. There were no words that even came close to explaining the kind of fire that seemed to attack every single one of his nerves and he was screaming and he was also crying but he couldn’t stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because there was still blood. He could still see it. Jackson’s blood. It was everywhere. He had to wash it off or somebody was going to die. Jackson was going to die. Because this was Jackson’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae? Youngjae, open the door!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The banging was driving him insane. The pain was driving him insane. He was starting to feel dizzy from all the fumes he was inhaling. He knew the others were trying to get in and stop him but he couldn’t let them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wouldn’t understand. They’d send him back to that doctor with the infuriatingly fake smile and then he’d be shipped off to some freaky institution where everybody ate their own shit and screamed about bugs on the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why couldn’t everything just be clean?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had no idea how or why the razor found its way into his hand but suddenly he was slashing. Back and forth, left and right, up and down. Sixteen times. Sixteen times on each wrist. Just the perfect amount.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there was still blood. He could still see it. Jackson’s blood. It was everywhere. He had to wash it off or somebody was going to die. Jackson was going to die. Because this was Jackson’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A metallic rattling reached him even through the sound of his own strangled sobs and the rushing in his ears, the doorknob behind him twitching violently as whoever was on the other side forced a screwdriver into the works.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to hurry up. He had to be clean right now or they were going to stop him. He grabbed the bleach again, a choked cry of agony forcing its way out his throat as his fingers curled around the plastic handle, and sloshed a tidal wave over his forearms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His knees gave out and he crashed onto the tiles, wailing as his skin was burnt right off his bones. Lights were bursting in front of his eyes, his chest was tight and constricted, his throat felt like it was closing up and he could still see the blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a loud crash as the lock was shattered and the door was kicked open but Youngjae barely even registered it until there were arms wrapping around his chest, dragging him backwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit …” came Jinyoung’s voice from above him as his head was pillowed in somebody’s lap. “Somebody call a fucking ambulance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Youngjae cried, trying to lift his arms and push the offending hands away only to realise he couldn’t feel anything beneath his elbows. “No … no … ambulance … no … please …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down, Youngjae.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t. Did they not understand that? He couldn’t just calm down when they told him to, like it was a switch he could flip on and off to decide when and where he would plunge into a panic attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was still blood. He could still see it. Jackson’s blood. It was everywhere. He had to wash it off or somebody was going to die. Jackson was going to die. Because this was Jackson’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not Jackson’s.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was still blood. He could still see it. Jackson’s blood. It was everywhere. He had to wash it off or somebody was going to die. Jackson was going to die. Because this was Jackson’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, it’s not my blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opened his eyes and saw his hyung. His hyung, Jackson. Jackson covered in blood. Jackson covered in blood everywhere. Drenched in it. Dripping with it. So much blood in every direction. Jackson’s blood and Jackson’s blood and Jackson’s blood and …</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s yours, Youngjae. It’s not mine, it’s yours.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Acronyms Of Crazy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>“Youngjae-ssi? Youngjae-ssi, can you hear me? Can you tell me where you are?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Light. Bright, bright, bright light. Blindingly bright. Painfully bright. He turned away, a strangled groan emanating from his sandpapery throat, and the light disappeared for a split second before returning again, almost twice as dazzling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s coming round now. Youngjae-ssi? Youngjae-ssi, open your eyes for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t want to. Everything hurt too badly. His arms were on fire, he couldn’t feel his fingers and these loud voices and beeping noises were perforating his eardrums for no good reason whatsoever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Increase the morphine. He’s got to be in a lot of pain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least someone seemed to understand something. That would make one of them then because Youngjae had no idea what was going on. He couldn’t figure out where he was or why he was there or why everything hurt so badly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t remember anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why isn’t he answering you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae knew that voice. Youngjae knew that he loved that voice. He loved it very, very much. And yet he couldn’t place it to an even remotely familiar face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no need to worry. The pain medication and the sedatives he was given are relatively strong. A reaction like this is normal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he’s going to be okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Physically, he’ll need several more surgeries, including a skin graft. He’s going to be in agony and most likely very distressed. Once he’s a bit more responsive, we’ll get the psych team in to discuss further options.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surgeries? </span>
  <em>
    <span>More </span>
  </em>
  <span>surgeries? Skin graft? Agony? Psych team? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Psych team?!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay … I … Thank you, sir …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any problems, just press the call button here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was going on? What was going on? What was happening? He was scared. And confused. And his head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, all heavy and floaty at the same time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to open his eyes. That was the only way he could find out where he was and why. But it hurt. But he had to. It still hurt, though. But he still had to. He would. He should. He could. Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bright. Bright. Bright. Bright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, it’s Jaebeom-hyung. You’re in a hospital, okay? You’re with me and you’re safe. Can you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hospital? Why? Why would he be in a hospital when he couldn’t remember any kind of accident or illness or even feeling a little poorly before he woke up in this bed … Bed? A white bed?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay if you can’t move your arms. You’re hurt so you might not be able to for a little while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air smelled of disinfectant. Strong, strong, strong disinfectant. And there was beeping somewhere off to his right. A strong, slow, rhythmic monotone. And the blankets that were pinning him to the mattress definitely weren’t his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“…hospital …?” he finally managed to croak, eyelids cracking open to give him a very blurry image of his hyung’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Jaebeom smiled. It was a sad smile. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was he though? If he was in a hospital bed, unable to move his arms or even remember what horrible incident had led him into this situation then he couldn’t exactly be the picture of perfect health.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he remembered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, no,” Jaebeom soothed, his hand leaping to comb its way through Youngjae’s hair as a tear rolled down the side of his face. “Don’t cry, Youngjae. Please don’t cry. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No …” Youngjae whispered, wanting to swat away his hyung’s comforting touch but too weak to even try. “… I’m not …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d burned himself. He’d cut himself. He’d mutilated his own body because, somehow, he’d managed to convince himself that it was the only way to stop Jackson dying from an injury he’d sustained over a month ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever denial he’d been housing for all this time was gone because now there was absolutely no denying that he was sick. Seriously sick. Like, sick-in-the-head sick. Like … Like …</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m crazy …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not crazy,” Jaebeom contradicted at once. “You’re not crazy, Youngjae. You’re ill. You have PTSD and OCD and it’s not your fault, okay? We’re going to get you help. I swear, Youngjae, we’re going to …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lock me up,” Youngjae interrupted bitterly, the frequency with which his tears fell increasing dramatically as the words left his chapped lips. “They’re sending a … psych team to … to section me, aren’t they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence. Jaebeom wasn’t even denying it. And that was all Youngjae needed. All he needed to tell him that his suspicions were 100% correct.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was going to a mental institution.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>***************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>        His arms were wrapped in bandages from fingers to forearms and he hadn't had a chance to get a good look at what was beneath those bandages but he could feel the pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was awful. Excruciating. Unbearable. But it was no one's fault but his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been the one who poured bleach over his skin before slashing his wrists to ribbons and then bathing in drain cleaner again. Nobody, not even him, could understand why he'd done it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he could remember was the overwhelming need to be clean. Spotless. Pristine and perfect. And somehow mutilating his own body seemed, at the time, the only way to accomplish that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Jaebeom and Mark hadn't thought to drench him in water when they found him then he probably would have died from infection or just from the pain itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They'd saved him and so this was how he had to repay them. By allowing himself to be shunted into something that looked remarkably like a doctor’s examination room but without the pot of lollipops on the counter and the posters adorning the walls.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All personal possessions and jewellery in here,” the curt woman with the cold hands and equally cold smile told him as she tossed a plastic bag into his lap. “Then please strip down to your underwear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae nodded silently, furiously blinking back tears in his desperation not to show this lady just how miserable he was at being asked to do this. It wasn’t like he really had a choice anyway. They’d labelled his hospital stay as a suicide attempt and that was apparently all they needed to lock him up against his will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled out his phone and slotted it into the bag followed by his airpods, his house keys and his wallet before the nurse snatched it from his grasp and closed the resealable opening. She deposited it in a tray on the counter and then turned to face him, arms folded and lips pulled into a thin line, clearly waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran down his spine – whether from the cold or the discomfort, he didn’t know – as he shrugged off his shirt, removed his belt and then stepped out of his jeans, wincing as his bare feet made contact with the tiled floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she circled round him, making notes and occasionally brushing her gloved fingers over his skin, he absently picked at the bandages wound around his wrists. He’d never wanted anything to disappear as badly as he wanted them to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” the nurse dismissed curtly, procuring a set of papery blue scrub-like clothes from a cupboard to her left. “Put this on, please, and then come with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae scrambled into the garments, hating the way the material felt against his skin but far too disgusted by standing there in nothing more than his underwear to bother worrying about fashion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was going to be fine, he told himself as he padded down the corridor after her, constantly terrified that the gown was open at the back so the world could see the individual vertebrae of his spine. He was going to be fine. He was going to be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what Jaebeom had promised and Jaebeom never broke his promises. So Youngjae was going to be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine. Going to be fine.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This will be your room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walls were white, the bed was white, the baskets on the floor that were supposed to act as a closet were white. They’d placed a tiny pot of fake flowers on the bedside table in a pathetic attempt to make everything look a little more homely but everything was still just white and bare and empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve missed dinner,” the nurse continued, her tone harsh and accusatory as though it were his fault he’d spent so long having to tap against every wall in that exam room sixteen times before he could let her touch him. “I’ll bring you something to eat later. Patients are allowed to spend time in the recreation room from 6pm but must return to their rooms by 9pm. The bathroom is at the end of the hall and toiletries have been provided for you. You will receive your medication tomorrow morning at 7am, including the pills you were already taking, the new ones you have been prescribed and the painkillers for your burns. Please settle in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave him another one of those tight-lipped smiles that resembled more of a grimace before turning on her heel and stalking out of the room, abandoning Youngjae in his new prison cell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heard the click of the door locking and the first tear dribbled down his cheek as he sank to the floor and clung to his knees, wanting nothing more at this moment than a hug from one of his members.  </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>****************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> <span>When the nurse had told him that patients were allowed to visit the recreation room after 6pm, she should have said they were </span><em><span>forced </span></em><span>to visit the recreation room after 6pm because Youngjae was marched down the hallway the moment the clock hands formed a perfectly straight line.</span></p><p>
  <span>He assumed it was something to do with keeping track of all the nutcases in the building, knowing where they were and what they were doing before they would be shut up in their rooms for the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lounge consisted of a couple of scratchy sofas with tacky and distastefully-coloured blankets tossed carelessly over the cushions, a football table with half the tiny plastic peoples’ heads missing and a TV that only harboured five different channels, but Youngjae was just glad to be out of that box they’d dared to call his bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, that’s what he thought. That’s what he thought right up until the moment he witnessed his first patient kick off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen. One second, he was curled up in a chair, blankly staring at a news report on the TV screen even though he wasn’t paying the slightest attention to whatever story they were running, and the next, he was tumbling to the floor and shuffling backwards until he hit the wall as everything around him seemed to explode.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man had been sitting right next to him, shoulders hunched and knuckles cracking in his lap, and his eyes had been zipping from side to side every time somebody so much as coughed but Youngjae hadn’t expected him to suddenly erupt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except now, that man was face down on the floor with his arms pinned behind his back and two gigantic orderlies practically sitting on top of him as his face turned red and spittle flew from his mouth with every obscenity he screeched to the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was manhandled out shortly after that, still bucking and kicking and screaming something about how ‘they’ were coming for him and how ‘they’ were going to kill him and his entire family, and Youngjae was left as nothing more than a shivering wreck on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, they allowed him to make a phone call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaebeom-hyung?” he whimpered, eyes still sore from how violently he’d cried until they’d given him something to help him calm down. “Jaebeom-hyung, are you there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae?” came the surprised falter from the other end of the line, followed by frantic shushing and then footsteps as the leader probably left whatever situation he was in to have a little more privacy. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaebeom …” Youngjae repeated pathetically, clutching the phone with both hands and wilting beneath the scrutiny of the nurse who was watching him. “Hyung, I want to come home. I hate it here. I’m scared. I want to come home, please. Please come and get me. I can’t spend the night here. Please. I won’t spend the night here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, he spent the night there.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Until The Very End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>“Stop! You’re messing it all up! Don’t you understand? It has to be like this! Stop it now!”</span></p><p>
  <span>They ignored his screams, his pleas, his begging and continued their rampaging tirade. Two orderlies dressed all in white, like an extract from some really fucked up horror film, pulling his clothes out of the closet and discarding them in clumsy piles on the carpet before moving on to the books lined up on the shelf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d spent so long ordering them and re-ordering them and re-re-ordering them before he could be sure they were set out perfectly alphabetically. And now these people were messing all of that up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t just leave them on the floor like that!” Youngjae protested, starting forwards from his place by the door only to be pushed backwards by the nurse who was supposedly ‘taking care of him’. “They have to be ordered! Please!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did they not understand? Did they not know that Jackson was going to die if his books weren’t alphabetised and his clothes weren’t folded neatly into different coloured segments? Or did they know exactly what they were doing but were just too selfish to care?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t even sure what had made them think he’d hidden something that could be used to harm himself or others in this room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a photo frame on the bedside table, the most expensive one he could find that would be worthy enough to house the picture of him and his family. He could even remember the day it was taken: almost two years ago in the practise room when even the biggest problems now looked so insignificant.  </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t touch that,” Youngjae sobbed, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and wringing his hands as one of the orderlies grabbed for the ornament. “Please don’t touch that. It’s important. Please …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was like he wasn’t even there. The burly man with the poorly-shaven stubble unhooked the back of the frame and pulled it out, tossing it onto the bed like it was just a ripped plastic bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then his fingers – his filthy, germ-caked fingers – were sponging whatever poison they held onto Youngjae’s photo. Infecting the image of his hyungs and his dongsaengs. Infecting Jackson, hurting Jackson, killing Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop it!” he screamed, lunging forwards and throwing himself upon the orderly who had dared threaten his friends. “I said don’t touch that! I said don’t touch it! I told you not to touch it! Stop it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were already on top of him, wrestling him away from his victim even as he kicked and bucked and screeched until it felt like his lungs were going to collapse inside his chest. There was no gentleness, no mercy, no release.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They manhandled him to the ground with his arms folded at the small of his back and a hand planted in between his shoulder blades, effectively pinning him into the wooden panels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even feel his fingers as their iron-tight manacles cut off his circulation. His ribs were digging into the floor – splintering, throbbing – and now he couldn’t even find the breath to shout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let go,” he wheezed, tears flooding his eyes as the flashback hit him with the force of a speeding train. “Please … Please stop … Please let go …”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t move … Play dead …</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson’s voice in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson’s body on top of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson shielding him from the bullets whizzing about above their heads.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>BANG!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His hip burst into flames, white hot pain burning through skin and muscle and tissue and bone, and he just knew he’d been shot. This is what Jackson had felt because of him. This is what all those people had felt. Pain on top of pain and then darkness closing in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was coming for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The looming omen of death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was coming for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d failed Jackson.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>********************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> <span>“What the fuck are those?” Mark spat the moment he stepped up into the window and caught sight of what lay on the other side of the reinforced glass. “He’s not some psycho nutcase! You can’t just strap him down whenever he gets upset!”</span></p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t ever remember being so angry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right in front of him was Youngjae’s room, the window pane being all that stood between him and his little brother, and just the mere sight of the whitewashed walls, the metal bed frame and the padded restraints keeping Youngjae’s limbs pinned to the mattress were enough to threaten the digestion of Mark’s dinner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae-ssi became very agitated,” the nurse who’d shown him in explained, her hands folded behind her back as though she wasn’t part of one of the sickest establishments Mark had ever seen. “We had to sedate him for the safety of him and of our staff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not dangerous,” Mark fumed, turning to face her head on with anger blazing in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fact that she didn’t even flinch showed him just how well-equipped she was to deal with the fury that probably encompassed her everyday life from morning until night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would you even search his room? You know he has OCD so shouldn’t you also know that disturbing his things was going to upset him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a routine check,” the woman deadpanned, still without batting an eyelid. “We do the same with all the patients to ensure they haven’t acquired anything that they could use to cause harm to themselves, each other or our staff members.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And who was Mark to argue with that?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly struck with an overwhelming sensation of exhaustion, he dropped his chin to his chest and sighed, scrubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets in the hopes that they would prevent the tears from peeking out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you just get them off him?” he pleaded pathetically. “He’s sick and he’s scared but he’s not going to hurt anybody.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She still seemed reluctant but anyone would have to admit that, after just one look at Youngjae in that blank little room, they could tell he didn’t have it in him to leap off the bed and put up a fight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, sir,” she finally conceded and Mark let out a deflated sigh of relief as she took the ring of keys from her belt and unlocked the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He followed her inside, wincing as the strong smell of disinfectant struck his nostrils and wondering how Youngjae had managed to stay here in the time it had taken Mark to get to the facility after the call came in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Youngjae didn’t even look up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes were open but they were dead, lifeless, soulless, like every last drop of everything that had made him Youngjae was just gone. Drained. Drained by the actions of some random mentally unstable man with a gun and a vendetta against the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, Youngjae,” Mark greeted softly, hovering hopelessly beside the bed as the nurse busied herself with the straps on his little brother’s wrists and ankles. “It’s Mark-hyung. Are you doing okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stupid question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The restraints finally fell away, revealing reddened skin that had been rubbed raw from the struggling Youngjae had undoubtedly endured, and Mark wanted to cry and scream and run out of the room and sue the hospital all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, the nurse left him after releasing his friend, seemingly realising that the drugs they’d pumped their patient with were strong enough to keep him docile and dumb for this little visitation period.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You with me, Youngjae?” Mark whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed and taking Youngjae’s hand. “Can you hear me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His skin was dry. It felt like he hadn’t drunk a drop in days. His face was sunken, eyes ringed with purple and red from a toxic combination of crying and exhaustion, and his cheekbones were protruding from beneath all those layers of tissue paper trying to protect his body from the world around it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Mark said, looking away from Youngjae’s sphynx-like expression and focusing instead on the fingers that were hanging loose in his grip. “Hyung’s here now. You’re safe. You’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A stifled sniffle had him raising his head so suddenly that something popped in his neck but he was oblivious to the pain as soon as he saw the single tear rolling down the side of Youngjae’s face to settle in his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t cry,” he pleaded, reaching forwards to wipe it away only for another three to fall in its place. And Youngjae still wasn’t looking at him. “Please don’t cry. Hyung’s here. Hyung’s protecting you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice sounded just as deadened as the rest of him. It was raw and cracked, like it hadn’t been used in years, and Mark wondered if he’d screamed for those so-called medical professionals to stop touching him as he was pinned to the ground and drugged.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackson’s fine,” the older boy reassured at once, stroking his thumb back and forth over Youngjae’s hand. “He would have come here to see you but he had a check-up appointment with the hospital. But he’s absolutely fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s glazed and glassy eyes finally moved, roving once around the room before coming to settle on his hyung’s face. He probably saw the unshed tears and the devastation and the helplessness because it only increased the intensity with which he cried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Mark had no idea what he could possibly say to comfort him in a situation that looked about as bleak as a situation could get. They weren’t home, they weren’t surrounded by things and people they loved. There was nothing warm and safe about anything in this room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to be like this anymore,” Youngjae whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as though trying to hide from the harsh reality of this obsessive compulsive life. “I don’t … I can’t be like this anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark continued to wipe his tears even if the flow didn’t show any sign of stopping. He continued to sit there even though his leg was going to sleep with the awkward angle he was perched at. He just continued to be and to exist and to provide companionship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he wouldn’t stop until Youngjae told him that he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we’ll get you better,” he swore as he raked his tear-stained fingers through his little brother’s hair. “We’ll cooperate with the treatment plans and we’ll take your pills and we’ll go to the therapy sessions and you’ll get better. I don’t know when, Youngjae, and I wish more than anything that I could take this all away but you’re strong enough for this. You always have been.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He believed in Youngjae even if Youngjae couldn’t believe in himself. That was the job of a big brother: to keep believing even when every last shred of proof pointed to a black and deadened end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To keep believing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter how bad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To keep believing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until the very end.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. I'm Not Fine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>It had taken two weeks to get to this point. Two weeks since his little meltdown had resulted in him being strapped to a bed in the 24-hour watch unit.</span></p><p>
  <span>Two weeks of the most intensive torture Youngjae could have ever imagined. Two weeks of group therapy sessions and individual therapy sessions and family therapy sessions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two weeks of swallowing the pills they gave him every chance they got. Two weeks of hell. Two weeks until he made the first step towards a somewhat normal existence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was sitting by his side, his arm finally free of that obstructive and deeply unflattering sling, as they watched the psychiatrist making a few starting notes on her clipboard. Youngjae knew that there were bandages still residing beneath his hyung’s shirt but the fact that the contraption was gone made his anxiety infinitely better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, Youngjae-ssi,” the doctor said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs to try and give out a more inviting aura. “Have you been trying the exercises that we talked about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae lowered his gaze, avoiding the eyes of both his hyung and his doctor as he felt shame burning his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried,” he whispered embarrassedly. “I promise, I … I tried. But it’s so hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson reached across the space between them to squeeze his hand as he started to pick at the skin surrounding his fingernails, left leg bouncing on the ball of his foot, and he ceased the actions at once. Just like he was supposed to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” the doctor acknowledged. “Obsessive compulsive disorder is a notoriously difficult illness to conquer and the prospect of ignoring those intrusive thoughts must be very daunting but I can promise you, Youngjae-ssi, that as soon as you make the first step, the rest will be a lot easier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae nodded dumbly, having heard those exact same words too many times before for them to make any kind of impact on him. He knew that what she was saying was true and he really had tried to combat his compulsions but he just couldn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was too scared of refusing to turn the light switch on and off sixteen times before he went to bed in case he would wake up to a phone call saying that Jackson had died during the night. He was too scared. Of everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His leg was starting to jiggle again as his internal soliloquy continued to feed the anxiety residing deep within his chest, and he could feel Jackson massaging his fingers but it just wasn’t helping like it should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae-ssi,” he vaguely heard his doctor calling through the haze over his auditory nerves. “Do you remember what I advised you to tell yourself when you feel those intrusive thoughts coming back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was tapping. He hadn’t even noticed but, somehow, he’d wriggled out of Jackson’s grip and had started drumming the predictable pattern on his thighs, eyes screwed shut and body rocking backwards and forwards ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And some part of him just knew there and then that this was the moment to change. This was the moment to push aside those memories and the fear they carried with them. This was the moment to show that murderous bastard down in hell that he hadn’t won whatever game he’d been playing that day at the concert that changed Youngjae’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember, Youngjae-ssi?” the doctor repeated tentatively and Youngjae’s eyes snapped open as suddenly as his body stopped moving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I say …” he started, staring at a fixed spot on the table in front of him in the hope that it would somehow ground him. “I say that the past is the past. That what happened is over now and that man is dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it wasn’t enough just to say it. He had to believe it, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I say that there is nothing he can do to hurt me or the people that I love. I say that Jackson-hyung is alive, not because of my compulsions, but because he is healing and he is safe and he is right beside me, holding my hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as if on cue, those strong fingers returned to his palm, taking hold and giving it one strong squeeze. He closed his eyes once more and focused on that hand. On the feel of Jackson’s skin against his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson’s healthy skin. Not bleeding, not broken, not dying. Healthy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m okay, Youngjae,” came the soft reassurance in his ear. “The wound is healing, I’m not in any pain, I’m not bleeding, I’m not even wearing that sling. I’m here, with you, and I’m okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae repeated those words in his head, picturing Jackson’s face in front of him even though his eyes were still resolutely screwed shut. He saw his hyung’s smile, heard his laugh, recalled every memory he could think of that didn’t include that night at the concert.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It might have been ten seconds, it might have been ten minutes or even an hour, but when Youngjae opened his eyes again, he was no longer tapping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jackson was still alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hyung?” he whimpered, clinging to the older boy with one hand and using the other to curl his fingers into the material of his papery hospital attire. “Hyung, you’re here, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here,” Jackson confirmed, sliding from his chair and crouching down in front of Youngjae so that their gazes were locked. “I’m right here and I’m okay. See?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled. Youngjae had missed that smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did it. It’s okay. Everything’s okay and you did it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had he really? He’d stopped tapping? Even though he hadn’t done sixteen sets of sixteen? He’d really stopped? He’d fought that evil little voice in the back of his head and he’d won? He’d done it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re amazing,” Jackson told him, and his smile was so wide that Youngjae wondered if it was going to split his face in two. “Look at you, Youngjae. Look how far you’ve come. You’re amazing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a really huge step, Youngjae-ssi,” the doctor chimed in from behind Jackson but Youngjae ignored her even as she kept talking. He only had eyes for his hyung. “I hope you understand how big of an achievement you’ve just made.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t understand. Not yet. It would take a few more days before he really did.  </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>******************</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> <span>“Can I … Hyung, can I ask you something?”</span></p><p>
  <span>Jackson glanced up at him as they continued to meander aimlessly down the path, surrounded by greenery and occasionally accosted with the far-too-bright colours of a flower patch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was pretty. Or as pretty as a psychiatric facility’s garden could be. But at least it was better than those four white walls Youngjae had spent so long confined within. While he was out here, just walking with his hyung by his side, he could forget that he was still a mental patient.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Jackson chirped cheerfully. “Ask away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you do it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He expected Jackson to stop walking and turn to face him. To stare at his pasty face like he’d gone crazy before he broke into a fit of raucous laughter and declared his dongsaeng to be an idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jackson didn’t do that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clarification needed,” he requested, not even breaking his stride as he hooked his arm through Youngjae’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy took a deep breath, gathering all the courage he could before reiterating his question, “How do you keep living like nothing happened? Like we weren’t trapped inside a building and shot at like fish in a barrel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew the wording was unnecessarily brutal but it was too late to take it back even as he felt Jackson’s muscles tensing beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’m doing as well as you think I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that … That, he hadn’t expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you are,” Youngjae protested, drawing to a stop in the middle of the path so they could stand face to face. “You’re … You’re fine. I’m the one who went crazy and got locked up in here but you were there, too. You went through the same things I did and you’re just … fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never imagined somebody like Jackson could adopt an expression that was so filled with pain. Jackson was happy. Jackson was always happy. Too happy for his own good. Happy for others. Happy because they needed him to be happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that was the problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not fine,” Jackson confessed after several long minutes of silence. “I’m not even remotely fine, Youngjae, but I’ve been pretending to be because that’s what I do. Because pretending I’m not dying inside is the only thing I’m actually good at.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae stared at him. He didn’t know what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every night …” Jackson grit out, bringing a hand up to swipe at the tears Youngjae hadn’t even noticed until now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every night, I wake up drenched in my own sweat and hyperventilating like a nutcase. Every time I hear a loud noise, it’s like I’m back there and sometimes I even drop to the floor because my mind convinces me it’s a gun. Every time I change my clothes and I see the bandages on my shoulder, I remember what it felt like to have a bullet ripping through my body and it takes several minutes before I can breathe again. Not once, throughout this whole mess have I been fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he was finished, his shoulders were heaving and his cheeks were sodden and he buried his face in his hands, probably so that Youngjae couldn’t watch him cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hyung …” the younger boy muttered, dumbstruck and stunned. “Hyung, I had … I had no idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What kind of friend did that make him if he hadn’t noticed how badly his big brother was struggling? He’d spent so long resenting Jackson for how unaffected he seemed to be over the whole situation when, in reality, he’d been suffering just as badly as Youngjae had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And almost as suddenly as Jackson’s breakdown had started, it stopped. He raised his head, dried his face on his sleeves, took Youngjae’s hand and pulled him back into step as they continued on their path through the garden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s stop talking about it,” he dismissed, voice still sounding a little muffled and clogged. “You did so well today. I don’t want to ruin that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae knew he shouldn’t ask the question that was pushing against the membrane of his mind. He knew it was a bad idea and would probably end in an answer he didn’t want to hear but the words slipped free of his lips before he could stop them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you regret it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson didn’t look up but he did draw in a sharp breath, probably as his subconscious processed the true extent of what his little brother was asking him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you regret lying on top of me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There wasn’t a single second of hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you got shot,” Youngjae argued, wondering when his own eyes had suddenly become so wet. “If you hadn’t pushed me down, that bullet would’ve hit me. You wouldn’t have been in so much pain. You wouldn’t have almost died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you would’ve,” Jackson countered at once, still without making eye contact. “You really think I want that? You really think I’d want you to have these memories? That day, I made a very conscious decision to protect you as best as I could and sometimes I wonder if you suffered more because of it but then I remember what it was like waking up after that surgery with every part of my body on fire and I know that I made the right choice. I’ll never think any differently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae opened his mouth, wanting to express some kind of gratitude or confess how immeasurably lucky he felt to have Jackson Wang in his life, but he should have expected his hyung to cut him off before he could even start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s not talk about it anymore. I surpassed my emotional threshold at least five minutes ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they kept walking, arms still linked, until they eventually circled back round and said goodbye at the hospital doors so Youngjae could return to his padded cell that suddenly didn’t seem so bad after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But neither of them mentioned that conversation in the garden ever again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This story needs to be over and done with so there's only going to be one more chapter after this. Thank you to everybody who reads and comments. You mean the world to me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Old Youngjae Back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> <span>By the time Youngjae finally signed the discharge papers, got to wear his own clothes and walk out the hospital doors with the knowledge that he didn’t have to come back ever again, he’d endured exactly forty-nine days of imprisonment.</span></p><p>
  <span>Forty-nine. It wasn’t even a multiple of sixteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because maybe sixteen wasn’t so lucky after all.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung was the one who got to accompany him home, sitting right next to him even though there was plenty of room in the company vehicle. It was a surreal feeling, knowing that his little brother was coming home after weeks and weeks of waking up just to remember that he wasn’t with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wonder how many messages you’ll have,” he joked as Youngjae started up his phone again. “Prepare for a bombarding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Youngjae grinned back, clearly exciting to have his mobile back in his hand after so long without it. “I just want to be able to play Doodle Jump again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung couldn’t help the snort of laughter that exploded from behind his mask, “Glad to see you’ve got your priorities straight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. That was the worst part of being in that place. I couldn’t play Doodle Jump.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the car drew to a halt outside their dorm, Jinyoung’s smile was still resolutely glued to his face and he wasn’t sure whether it would ever vanish as he watched Youngjae bouncing up the driveway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t even bother to avoid all the cracks in the pavement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy had made so much progress in seven weeks. He was almost unrecognisable and yet it felt like they had their old Youngjae back. His compulsions were still noticeable every now and again but nowhere near as prominent as they had been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed, not quite as fully as he used to, but just enough to make it feel like the sun was shining after a lifetime of darkness, and the toothy grin that stretched his lips was genuine when, for so long, it had been forced and fake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like maybe – just maybe – they could go back to how they were before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung’s phone buzzed against his thigh as he stepped over that invisible barrier separating the outside world and the WiFi zone. He expected nothing of it as he waved to the driver of the company vehicle and followed Youngjae up towards the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it kept buzzing. Incessantly. Obsessively. So incessant and so obsessive that he couldn’t even wait until he got inside before he pulled it out and checked what exactly was apparently so urgent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had fourteen missed calls and twenty-seven messages, but it was only the first that he processed before his body was drenched in ice.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>From: </span>
  <b>Jaebeom</b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>DON’T LET YOUNGJAE USE HIS PHONE!!!!!!!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae!” Jinyoung called out, raising his head as panic started to set in. “Youngjae, turn off your phone!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had no idea what was going on but it was clearly something bad. Very, very, very bad. Jaebeom had never used that many exclamation marks in a text before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leapt up onto the porch and reached out to grab the kid’s shoulder, seconds away from wrenching the device out of his hands before he realised he’d been too slow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door was thrown open and Jaebeom stumbled over the threshold with Mark right behind him, so close that when the leader screeched to a stop, the eldest crashed into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they just stared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae’s expression was slack and unreadable but the hands that were clutching his phone were trembling so badly that Jinyoung could barely read the words that were plastered across the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he saw the photo. The photo that couldn’t have been taken more than forty-five minutes ago and yet had already managed to make headlines across the country and, inevitably, the planet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The photo of Youngjae emerging from the unit, walking right past the sign that read in letters that stood out bold as anything against a royal blue background: </span>
  <em>
    <span>PSYCHIATRIC REHABILITATION CENTRE.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung snatched the phone, scrolling to the top of the article with his heart in his throat and his lungs squashed to nothing more than alveoli pancakes beneath his ribcage. The moment he read the title, he thought he was going to vomit.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Choi Youngjae hospitalised for mental illness?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>K-Pop singer from Got7 seen for first time in 3 months emerging from psychiatric facility. Fans question health of favourite idol and demand explanation from JYP Entertainment.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They had no right. Who the fuck did they think they were?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The poor boy had been free for less than an hour and already he was being confronted with his whereabouts, even receiving orders to disclose the hell he’d gone through since some lunatic pointed a fucking gun at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did people have no concept of privacy? Of sensitivity? Did they think it was acceptable to bombard a person with questions the minute they stepped out of a hospital? What was wrong with society if harassment such as this was considered okay? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Mark’s voice that fished Jinyoung from his internal raging and he raised his head just in time to see Youngjae shoving past both his hyungs and disappearing into the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all followed, too nervous to leave him on his own, too angry to let this go and too guilty to not at least try to apologise for not protecting him from the threat they should have expected would rear its ugly head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you stop him?” Jaebeom hissed as Jinyoung tripped over the doormat. “Didn’t you see how many times we called you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” was all Jinyoung could get out before Yugyeom’s voice cut through the air like a whip crack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“HYUNG, DON’T!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only time Jinyoung had ever felt fear this intense was the moment he’d seen the news report on the TV that informed them their best friends might have been shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both he and Jaebeom skidded down the hallway and burst into the kitchen with their hearts in their throats but before anyone could say anymore, Mark threw out an arm to tell them to stay back and stay quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Youngjae was holding a knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae …” the eldest started, talking very slowly and still holding a hand towards the boy in a signal of surrender as he advanced a couple of steps. “Youngjae, give me the knife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Youngjae wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t looking at anyone. Not Jaebeom or Jinyoung standing stock still and stunned in the doorway. Not Yugyeom or Mark who were right in front of him, eyes widened in terror as they tried to find the right words to say. Not Jackson or Bambam in the corner of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing he was looking at was the nine-inch steel blade clutched in both his white-knuckled fists, the polished tip pointing at his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, please …” Mark begged, shuffling forwards a couple more centimetres. “Please put down the knife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t,” Youngjae ground out through gritted teeth, tears splashing onto the front of his T-Shirt. “They know. Everyone knows I’m crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not crazy,” Mark tried, his voice cracking as Youngjae’s grip on the weapon seemed to tighten. “You’re not crazy, Youngjae. You were sick and you were scared but you’re better now. You’ve come so far. You’ve done so well. Please … Please, just put down the knife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me!” Youngjae screamed, using his free hand to roll up one of his sleeves and reveal the mess of pinkish scars slashed into his forearms. “I can’t live like this! I can’t … I can’t do this! I can’t be the next idol who gets struck off because the whole world found out they were a psycho and the company’s too ashamed to bother protecting them!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands were shaking violently. Dangerously violent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jinyoung could already envision that blade disappearing into his dongsaeng’s abdomen, blood spurting in all directions as he sank to the floor and poisoned the kitchen tiles with the colour that had caused him so much terror for so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae, you’re not losing your job,” Jaebeom interjected. “We’re not going to let that happen. There’s no reason you can’t keep going with the rest of us. So you’re scarred. That doesn’t matter. We can cover it up with make-up or long sleeves. It doesn’t mean anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hyung,” Yugyeom whispered, both his hands trembling as he continued to hold them aloft. “Hyung, please don’t do this. Please just put it down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jinyoung wasn’t sure Youngjae was even listening anymore. The only thing that existed in his little world was him and that knife and now his hands weren’t shaking anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to do this.” His voice was so quiet. Barely even audible. “I need to take control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands moved and Jinyoung was about to scream. His muscles even flinched forwards as though he were going to leap on top of his friend and wrestle the knife from his hands, but he couldn’t get his feet to take his weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Youngjae!” Jackson shouted, completely out of the blue and just loud enough to have them all freezing in place. “Youngjae, listen to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Youngjae was listening. He was still holding the blade, still terrifyingly close to sinking it into his gut, but he’d stopped. He’d stopped and he was listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asked me if I regretted it, right?” Jackson asked, taking the smallest step forwards just like the others had done. “If I regretted shielding you that night? Remember that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I told you that I didn’t, Youngjae, because it’s true. I’m glad I protected you because if I hadn’t, you might have died. I went through all that pain – the surgery, the rehab, the flashbacks – because I tried to keep you alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only now did Jinyoung see where this was leading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still get nightmares, remember?” Jackson continued, his face pale and his whole body quivering like a leaf. “I still feel like I’m back there sometimes and I hate it. I hate that I’m so scared and I hate that I’m so damaged but I’m glad I did it because I saved you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was the first time any of them were hearing any of this. That any of them were even remotely aware how desperately Jackson was trying to keep his head above the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if you don’t put that knife down, what was it for? Huh, Youngjae? You’ll be dead and I’ll continue to live with these scars and these memories except I’ll know that it made no difference. That I threw myself in front of a bullet for nothing. I’m in pain because you’re alive but if you die then I’m still in pain and I’ll have nothing to prove that it was worth it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a single person standing in that room wasn’t crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Put down the knife,” Jackson whispered, closing the last bit of space between him and Youngjae and resting his hand on top of his friend’s. “Please, Youngjae. For me. Put down the knife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For maybe fifteen seconds, nobody did or said or breathed. But when Youngjae’s fingers loosened their grip and Jackson held the knife out behind him so that Yugyeom could take it away, there was an audible deflation of lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got you,” Jackson promised as Youngjae’s knees gave out and his hyung stooped to catch him, the both of them coming to rest against the kitchen cabinets. “I got you. You’re okay. You’re okay. We’re all okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae was sobbing, clutching at Jackson’s shirt with everything he had and when Mark joined them in their little huddle on the floor, he latched onto his eldest hyung with just as much ferocity and just as much desperation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was as though he were saying, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t leave me. Ever. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And they were perfectly happy to comply with his request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yugyeom was still holding the knife, arms hanging limp at his sides as he watched his hyungs cry together on the kitchen tiles. Bambam had his hands braced on the kitchen table and his chin on his chest as he heaved deliberately slow breaths into his airways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaebeom had sunk into a chair, his fingers twisted into his hair and his elbows resting on his knees. And Jinyoung was still in the doorway, exhausted body leaning heavily against the doorframe which had become his only source of support.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to be okay,” Jackson was still muttering under his breath as he carded tracks in Youngjae’s hair. “Everyone here is going to be okay. We’ll figure it out. We’ll make a statement and we won’t let the company fire you. The people who love you are going to stick by you. We’re all going to be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Youngjae didn’t believe him because the concept of ‘okay’ had only just been in his grasp and yet had slipped away like soap in wet hands. The concept of ‘okay’ was a lie because nobody who’d been through what he’d been through was ‘okay’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t believe him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But six months later, on an Inkigayo stage with a hundred fans screaming his name and his members by his side as he belted out the highest note of his career into a microphone he was clutching with both hands, he changed his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it was then that he realised he hadn’t thought about the number sixteen in over half a year.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I feel like I've lost my ability to write as well as I used to so this story needed to come to an end before it drove me to the point of madness. Thank you to everybody who supported it despite its flaws</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments and kudos really help with my confidence and motivation so, if you have a spare minute, let me know what you think. Have a great day and stay safe :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>